Poems, Poems, Poems
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Une fleur qui me rappelle ce beau poème de William Wordsworth...et mes années collège😊
A flower that reminds me of this wonderful poem by William Wordsworth...and my college years😊
Daffodils at Ullswater
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.....
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.
Hello everyone,
Thank you so much for your visit and support ..
All Right Reserved. Pictures can not be used without explicit permission by the creator .
Fabrizio Massetti.
Konya, Turkey
Mevlânâ (مولانا, "our master”) Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī is one of the most known Sufi mystic. He was born in Balkh city of Khorosan, in present-day Afghanistan, in 1207. He spent most of his life in Konya, Turkey and passed away there, on 17 December 1273. He was also a poet. His Mathnawī, composed in Konya, is one of the most read poems in the world. He founded the Mevlevi Order (Mawlaw’īyya) of Sufism. The Mawlaw'īyya are also known as the Whirling Dervishes due to their famous practice of whirling as a form of dhikr (remembrance of God). Dervish is a common term for an initiate of the Sufi path; the whirling is part of the formal Sama ceremony and the participants are properly known as semazens. A dhikr ceremony is shown in these videos: www.youtube.com/watch?v=QBqwfBkNa9k.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=IwlcDu4A3TY
The photograph shows the mausoleum of Mevlânâ Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī.
Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again
and fasten themselves to the high branches ,
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands
of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails
for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it
the thorn
that is heavier than lead ,
if it’s all you can do
to keep on trudging ,
there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted ,
each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,
whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.
~Mary Oliver, Morning Poem
taken at stunning :
Visit this location at Witch`s Rock Costa Rica - Pura Vida! in Second Life
" 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
....is an exercise in language, an opportunity to sharpen the thinking and invent the speech. It is an observation on our interactions with language and objects. It talks about what we do when we create an object, and how we connect when we talk to others. Objects can act so as poems can speak.
(by Zaven)
Milan Design Week 2023
Circolo Filologico Milanese
MILANO
Ela gosta de B&P...
Eu nao...
Eu gosto de tudo ajeitadinho
mesmo que seja um baguncinho
eu gosto de um patinho
bem fritinho ...
E fodas pros patos.
Poema tipo Japones.
Harikari....
In the minds of mad men
Echoes the darkness of wars,
And in that dark grows the
Media images of death and destruction.
And from the shade of our limitations,
we will scream into the void, peace and freedom, then close our eyes and pray, his,
is not the hand that stops the ticking clock.
When the bidding is done, the madness will stop, but only for a while, and we will try and release this Dove with a broken wing, and call it peace.
Words by, Broken Beacon.
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
------------------------------------------------------
© 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- 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.
"Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky."
- Kahlil Gibran
Trees shaped by the sea wind.
A wild forest, near the sea at Oostkapelle The Netherlands
pp: done with Snapseed and Topaz filters
~ Oops ~ Poem by me ~ 03.18.16
Why is it we call what we do "mistakes"
And to grow from them is a must.
Yet others we call liars, cheats and fakes
Who have surely broken our trust.
For all of you who "allegedly" did me wrong:
I am sorry I doubted you (it shouldn't have taken this long).
++++++++++++
Snapshot_080 Stepping into a Spielberg Movie
Brush-Textured: Luminance Greyed In (like film losing color) on backdrop and skin, plus added contrast to fabrics and metals
"In the Moment" - Random People Series
++++++++++++
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
I see you again I believe, in a sleepless night
Just by closing my eyes, blinding myself from the sky
But I have to get used to it, far from you I fall asleep
Inspired by Allen ZIMME poem
Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again
and fasten themselves to the high branches–
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands
of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails
for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it
the thorn
that is heavier than lead–
if it’s all you can do
to keep on trudging–
there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted–
each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,
whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.
~ Mary Oliver.
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! :-)
Lies waiting a spark, to invigorate a flame
A spark pervasive, in darkness always
Every atom advancing, perpetual in ethereal waves
Every Sun an atom and every atom a sun
Though candles are different, with same fire they burn
Like atoms of life of vain personalities
Every living being, deriving motivating force
From the living ocean of power, the unlimited source
All bodies are mine, one and same consciousness pervading
'Beyond' is just what the senses can't perceive
- Anuj Nair
------------------------------------------------------
© 2010 Anuj Nair. All rights reserved.
-------------------------------------------------------
Contact : www.anujnair.net
________________________________________________
© 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.
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
Oh my sweet legacy, my undeniable mistake,
We all must wade through a pit of hell, before the fallen of fate,
I trudged and tried to fly, but then regained my step,
I laugh at my misjudgements, Of promises and trust not kept,
Your stubborn and lying eyes, showed deceit and total destruction,
As you ripped apart my soul, my heart a careless abduction,
My lips now twitch in a grin, the forlorn face no longer appears,
My complete resurrection and strength reborn, I now live on the blood of your tears,
I grow stronger with every ache, I know you one day will feel,
For your loss and your horrific ways, have lost what once was real,
My esteem now blooms in thoughts of my overcoming ways,
It proves my once weakened state, Now something of previous days,
I pity your pathetic state, Your broken promises and death of tomorrow,
But my pity stops only there, for I no longer feel any sorrow,
May your karma be 10 times fold, but only to allow you to learn,
For in this place we call earth, a certain hell still truly shall burn,
So walk fast and be steady, for your insolent behavior has taught me this,
It is best to not get lost in a web of lies, and lose yourself in a depressed abyss,
As much as I let the fires burn, turning my once bright eyes to coal,
My happiness and success grows,
The ultimate revenge is the mending of my unbiding and blackened soul,
For now I leave with this, a sweet and dark good bye,
You may have harmed and broken me, but I am now to far along to cry.
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
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
Bring light into your shadows.
And except that there will be new shadows followed by the light.
All is a circle.
No end, no beginning.
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M'enfilo pels pensaments
de les hores callades.
Pas a pas,
sobre la corda del silenci,
escric mots que perfilen
nous horitzons.
Enrere queden les creences
d'un temps que ja m'és llunyà.
Que n'és de savi el temps!
O som nosaltres que hem après
a desaprendre?
a desfer-nos de l'innecessari,
per tornar a l'essència,
per saber el que veritablement
ens cal...
ISABEL RIBERA I CARNÉ. M'enfilo
(poem by A. A. Milne: www.goodreads.com)
Last sunday my hubby and I drove into the country to get some fresh air since I had been working from home and hence staying inside (as requested) for the most part of that week (now it's already end of week 2 of home office and self distancing).
Spring blossoms blown in the wind and with manual focus - so not completely sharp ... but I like the atmosphere !
Taken with my 'old' analogue Nikkor 50mm AI f/1.8 - wide open:
I finally got an adapter for my Pentax body! So I've got even one more Nifty Fifty, lol ... and was very surprised about the 'cheerful' bokeh character of this one : ))
As always these days: Please stay safe and healthy !!
* * * * * * * * *
Ein ziemlich windiger Sonntag - dazu ein manuelles Objektiv: Also nicht ganz scharf, diese Frühlingsblüten ... aber ich mag die Atmosphäre !
Aufgenommen mit meinem 'alten' analogen Nikkor 50mm f/1.8 - Offenblende:
Ich habe endlich einen Adapter für meinen Pentax-Body bekommen! Also habe ich noch ein 50mm mehr zum Spielen ... und war sehr überrascht über den 'fröhlichen' Bokeh-Charakter dieses Exemplars : ))
Wie immer in dieser besonderen Zeit:
Bitte bleibt gesund !
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
A dragon poem about mental health and the power of love. ❤
"In the silent chambers of my mind,
where shadows whisper, and fears unwind,
I tread the path of endless night,
seeking solace, a glimmer of light.
Amidst the chaos, a fragile heart,
beats with hope, though torn apart.
Whispers of doubt, a constant friend,
yet through this darkness, I ascend.
In the depths, where sorrow lies,
I hear the echoes of my cries.
Yet within these walls, a seed does grow,
a testament to all I've known.
Through trials faced and battles fought,
a lesson learned, a wisdom sought.
Each tear shed, a story told,
of strength unseen, of courage bold.
And as I rise from shadows deep,
a promise made, a vow to keep.
To cherish love, both given and received,
in its embrace, I am relieved.
For in the heart where love does reign,
it heals the wounds, it soothes the pain.
A beacon bright, a guiding star,
reminding me of who we are.
Together, we can face the night,
with love as armor, shining bright.
For in the end, through love's pure light,
we find our strength, our wings for flight.
So let us weave this tale anew,
of mental battles, we've fought through.
Triumphant hearts, with love's embrace,
together, in Evermore we find our sacred place."
-The Dragonz Mind-
***********
Sometimes it takes luck to match a good picture with a poem and thanks for the Cica Ghost's art I did it. Such a beautiful place.
Dark fairytale: maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Mysterious%20Isle/82/57/49
*
*
* Fantasía de la Alhambra 02. Vista, a través de un arco, de la Fuente del Patio de los Leones en el Palacio Nazarí de La Alhambra. Ciudad de Granada. Andalucía.
* A finales de 1370, Mohamed V emprendió la edificación de un nuevo palacio, conocido como Palacio de los Leones por las doce esculturas de la fuente que centra su patio.
La Fuente de los Leones tiene una taza dodecagonal y está ejecutada con una gran perfección técnica. Doce versos se hallan inscritos en ella. Seis de estos versos, Ibn Zamrak los aprovechó para la fuente. Esta obra de arte es a la vez un surtidor, y simboliza el poder real del sultán asociada con el suministro del agua, uno de los bienes más preciados por la cultura islámica.
Traigo de nuevo, a evocación, los versos de Ibn Zamrak dedicados precisamente a esta fuente.
Poema de la taza de los leones
«Bendito sea Aquél que otorgó al sultán Mohamed
las bellas ideas para engalanar sus mansiones.
Pues, ¿acaso no hay en este jardín maravillas
que Dios ha hecho incomparables en su hermosura,
y una escultura de perlas de transparente claridad,
cuyos bordes se decoran con orla de aljófar?
Plata fundida corre entre las perlas,
a las que semeja belleza alba y pura.
En apariencia, agua y mármol parecen confundirse,
sin que sepamos cuál de ambos se desliza.
¿No ves cómo el agua se derrama en la taza,
pero sus caños la esconden enseguida?
Es un amante cuyos párpados rebosan de lágrimas,
lágrimas que esconde por miedo a un delator.
¿No es, en realidad, cual blanca nube
que vierte en los leones sus acequias
y parece la mano del califa, que, de mañana,
prodiga a los leones de la guerra sus favores?
Quien contempla los leones en actitud amenazante,
(sabe que) sólo el respeto (al Emir) contiene su enojo.
¡Oh descendiente de los Ansares, y no por línea indirecta,
herencia de nobleza, que a los fatuos desestima:
Que la paz de Dios sea contigo y pervivas incólume
renovando tus festines y afligiendo a tus enemigos!»
(IBN ZAMRAK. Canto a la Alambra.)