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For a Version of I Ching
The imminent is as immutable
as rigid yesterday. There is no matter
that rates more than a single, silent letter
in the eternal and inscrutable
writing whose book is time. He who believes
he’s left his home already has come back.
Life is a future and well-traveled track.
Nothing dismisses us. Nothing leaves.
Do not give up. The prison is bereft
of light, its fabric is incessant iron,
but in some corner of your mean environs
you might discover a mistake, a cleft.
The road is fatal as an arrow’s flight
but God is watching in the narrowest light.
~Borges
Para una versión del I King
El porvenir es tan irrevocable
Como el rígido ayer. No hay una cosa
Que no sea una letra silenciosa
De la eternal escritura indescrifrable
Cuyo libro es el tiempo. Quien se aleja
De su casa ya ha vuelto. Nuestra vida
Es la senda futura y recorrida.
Nada nos dice adiós. Nada nos deja.
No te rindas. La ergástula es oscura,
La firme trama es de incesante hierro,
Pero en algún recodo de tu encierro
Puede haber un descuido, una hendidura,
El camino es fatal como la flecha
Pero en las grietas está Dios, que acecha.
I found these books and knife left like this on our dining table. Perhaps normal if they were cook books but were two poetry books by Mary Oliver. Welcome to the Lawrence household.
another shot from the series "Pagan Poetry" from the Autumn of 2007, with misa
...there will be a new series with her coming soon.
Misa is now on Flickr!
Taken at the Preliminary Fantasy Fest Parade. Masks among my 'native' ancestors people are a powerful tool for evoking aspects of ourselfs in order to heal or empower. This mask in particular caught my eye as being a very healing one. Very different and its owner if anything selfless as he wore it.
This particular photo is dedicated to a flickr comrade by the name of Matty!
As he embarks on a new path may you have one mask that heals you whole.
Nikon FM + Voigtlander Ultron 40mm/ 1:2
Kodak Gold 100
你躺成一片草地
花都要開著
不說話不說話
花都要開著.
你走過 你和她走過
吃三明治
花別在頭上
草都要笑
你走過
躺在草地上
和你一樣是孩子
綠的 蓋著你
看幾億年的星星
看星星幾億年不睡 眨眼睛
我低頭眨眼睛
眼睛 蓋著你
綠色是害羞的
草也低頭 花也低頭
你走過
你走過
便躺成一片草地
雨在下 細細小小的下
像草 像花 像我
草地---給這樣親愛的你
by 夏夏
A year of iPhone photographs - my favourite images of 2013. Read about August here.
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Would love to take a boat and sail away...
Texture thanks a lot for Lenabem Anna: www.flickr.com/photos/lenabem-anna/
If you would love to purchase this art work, you are welcome to my FAA Page:
fineartamerica.com/featured/maldivian-poetry-dhoni-boat-j...
Brønden. View On Black
- A prism of words, for the lucky who reads Neruda in spanish …
Poema El pozo
de Pablo Neruda
A veces te hundes, caes
en tu agujero de silencio,
en tu abismo de cólera orgullosa,
y apenas puedes
volver, aún con jirones
de lo que hallaste
en la profundidad de tu existencia.
Amor mío, qué encuentras
en tu pozo cerrado?
Algas, ciénagas, rocas?
Qué ves con ojos ciegos,
rencorosa y herida?
Mi vida, no hallarás
en el pozo en que caes
lo que yo guardo para ti en la altura:
un ramo de jazmines con rocío,
un beso más profundo que tu abismo.
No me temas, no caigas
en tu rencor de nuevo.
Sacude la palabra mía que vino a herirte
y déjala que vuele por la ventana abierta.
Ella volverá a herirme
sin que tú la dirijas
puesto que fue cargada con un instante duro
y ese instante será desarmado en mi pecho.
Sonríeme radiosa
si mi boca te hiere.
No soy un pastor dulce
como en los cuentos de hadas,
sino un buen leñador que comparte contigo
tierra, viento y espinas de los montes.
Ámame tú, sonríeme,
ayúdame a ser bueno.
No te hieras en mí, que será inútil,
no me hieras a mi porque te hieres.
A découvert soudain, l'horizon éclairci
Quand au détour des rues ses pas feutrés l'énoncent,
Libre enfin de s'assoir et rester aux aguets
Le félin apparait et domine les lieux.
°VolDeNuit°
"Losing someone is like when the sun comes through a window, moving across the room with each hour, until night falls and all you can do is try to remember the soothing shapes it made.” Stewart Lewis
It is written on the arched sky; it looks out from every star. It is the Poetry of Nature;
it is that which uplifts the spirit within us. John Ruskin
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Ένα ξερό δαφνόφυλλο την ώρα αυτή θα πέσει,
το πρόσχημα του βίου σου και θ'απογυμνωθείς.
Με δέντρο δίχως φύλλωμα θα παρομοιωθείς,
που το χειμώνα απάντησε στου δρόμου εκεί τη μέση.
Κ.Καρυωτάκης.
right now
this very day
left floating
in whatever way
it wants to
this exact
and necessary
moment
at the summit
of the well
a cry
rose-colored
for the hand
that casts it down
a little act
of Christian love.
--P. Picasso
Thème de Macro Monday "La beauté est dans l'oeil de celui qui regarde"
Macro Mondays Theme "Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder"
Qui aime la poésie?
J’aime lire ou écouter de la poésie, en vers ou en prose.
Lorsque je lis un poème qui m'interpelle, j’ai l’impression de pouvoir y trouver une solution simple et absolue, à travers le prisme de la beauté, à tout ce qui m’ennuie, m’interroge ou m’obsède.
Je ne dirais pas que la plupart des gens trouve la poésie laide (pour rejoindre le thème du jour), mais je crois savoir qu'en lire peut paraître ennuyeux, ou peut être que certaines œuvres semblent hermétiques ou donnent l'impression de demander trop de temps pour ressentir ce qu'il s'y dit?
La photo est un passage très connu du Petit Prince de Saint-Exupery, où le renard explique ce que signifie « apprivoiser » au Petit Prince ; ce même passage que j’ai d’ailleurs dû apprendre par cœur vers 8-9 ans à l’école, et auquel je n'avais rien compris à l'époque...
Je ne me lasse jamais de ce livre, un livre pour enfants: à chaque fois que je le lis, j’y trouve une allégorie nouvelle.
Pour moi c'est un mélange de sagesse et de sublime à l'état pur!
I hope I am in the theme.
I really like written poetry, whether in verse or prose.
When I read a poem that speaks to me, I feel I’m suddenly able to find a simple and absolute solution -through beauty- to everything that annoys, questions or obsesses me.
I wouldn't say people find poetry ugly, but I guess it is often found boring, hermetic, or seems to be too time-consuming to read, and feel?
The photo is a well known passage of "the Little Prince" by Saint-Exupery, where the fox explains what “to tame” means to the Little Prince; this same passage that I had to learn by heart when I was 8-9 years old at school, but at that time, it hadn't made any sense to me...
I never get tired of this book, a children's one, everytime I read it, I find a new allegory.
Pure wisdom and beauty to me!
118/365
6th grade poetry project - we had to write poetry in various forms, illustrate them and then bind them into a book. I thought I'd post these for posterity. I was 10 when I wrote them!
Articulate
The house talked with the tree
At a still moment and for
No particular reason.
Their common language did
Not use words, and their mouths
Kept shut all the time.
oil transfer drawing monoprint
DM, 2023
i love poetry. i really do. i especially love old poetry. the only problem is i have no idea what it means. it's just beautiful to read out loud. i have this one poetry book (which is featured in this picture) and i read it to my mom in the car. we laugh so hard because it's either really awkward or pretty much nonsense.
i love it.
Love never truly dies
it sometimes fails
to thrive in virgin
ground of innocence
Its cold gray caliche
slowly pierced by wet
and eroded over time
Love evolves and then
what once was loathing
fueling hate subsides
as rocky soil recedes
Into thick clay and is
replaced by thoughts
well worth remembering
Love inspires it pulls
forth ancient smiles
invoked by all which
languished long ago
Ardent pungent scents
providing promise of
a perfect feast
Love lingers in our souls
beyond the heart and
conciousness, it slowly
seeks the light of years
but rises forth to seek
that which might be touched
and coaxes forth silent voice
Love never truly dies
despite the pain
and moments lost
the sweet essence
survives to coax
its magic voice to
call the spirit to arise
(DeHoll (c) 2008)
Someone had carved the poem "Trees" by Joyce Kilmer on a board and attached it to a giant fir in Cliff Gilker Park in Roberts Creek BC. I always enjoyed reading it whenever I walked through the park and here it is for this stand of poplar near Georgian Bay in Ontario.
TREES
by: Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)
I THINK that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
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