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.
Rule No.1 in Photography.
If you sell your photo to an author for use as a book cover you must first read the book. I got well paid for my shot, similar to this one.. but I wish I'd read the book of poems first.
Papilio thoas — Porte-queue thoas
Événement : Papillons en Fête au Cente Jardin Hamel
Ville de Québec (Québec) Canada
Papillons en liberté provenant des 4 coins du monde
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© Guylaine Bégin. L'utilisation sans ma permission est illégale.
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Papilio thoas — Thoas Swallowtail
Event : Papillons en Fête au Cente Jardin Hamel
Quebec City (Quebec) Canada
Butterflies from the 4 corners the world
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© Guylaine Bégin. Use without permission is illegal.
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*
* EXPLORE octubre 2020
* Puerta del Castillo. Entrada a la “Plaza Alta” por la parte posterior de la Alcazaba. Badajoz. Extremadura. España.
* Todo el conjunto amurallado de la Alcazaba fue declarado Monumento Histórico-Artístico por decreto de 3 de junio de 1931.
Se puede constatar que la alcazaba de Badajoz, no sólo es la más grande de España, sino que además, es la mayor de Europa y de las más grandes del mundo en lo que a su perímetro y superficie se refiere.
Ante tan singular enclave rememoré los versos del poeta pacense Jesús Delgado Valhondo.
Amanecer en Badajoz
Siento la luz latiendo debajo de mis párpados,
viene del manantío que brota de mi alma,
del amor a la vida abrazando mi cuerpo,
del corazón subiendo la escalera soñada.
Abro los ojos, nada: la luz es más profunda.
El muro de la sombra a mis manos agranda.
Voy buscando el milagro que presiento en noticias
de un nuevo sol vertiendo su dorada palabra.
Ya respiran los árboles en la luz de los pájaros,
en donde está la estrella dulcemente cansada,
en donde está el recuerdo llamando a todas partes:
catedral, río, puente, torre de la Alcazaba.
Resplandece en la sangre la claridad del día.
Ha despertado el aire remansos de nostalgias.
Solamente dos pasos, alargar los sentidos,
descubrir tras la noche Badajoz en el alba.
Huele el paisaje a limpio, tierra y cielo limpio,
el silencio se rompe en trozos de mañana.
Dios me mira contento desde sus grandes horas
en el momento justo de abrir yo mi ventana.
(JESÚS DELGADO VALHONDO. Poemas .)
" 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
'Poem in Pink' is a macro photograph of Bougainvillea leaves. (The leaves are colorful, but the flowers and small, white and within the leaves).
🎶 Yiruma Kiss the Rain
Wishing you my Flickr friends a beautiful weekend with lots of beautiful pictures captured and precious moments created.
A Poem by Neale Horrocks The Poetic Vagabond
The sky, the sky, it cries today
Raindrops slowly fall our way
Like tiny bombs on the land
Crafted lovingly by Gods hand
The sky, the sky, weeps sad tears
Each one armed with love and fears
Clinging tightly on every flower
Falling, falling every hour
The sky, the sky, tears on its face
Down, so beautifully, they do race
Cleansing the sins from a heart
They kiss natures lips and never part
Raindrops, raindrops, fall our way
The sky, the sky, it cries today
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.
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
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© 2010 Anuj Nair. All rights reserved.
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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.
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! :-)
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, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds -
and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of -
wheeled and soared and swung high in the sunlit silence.
Hovering there I've chased the shouting wind along
and flung my eager craft through footless halls of air.
"Up, up the long delirious burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace,
where never lark, or even eagle, flew;
and, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
the high untrespassed sanctity of space,
put out my hand and touched the face of God."
John Gillespie Magee Jr.
“Let no one who loves be called altogether unhappy. Even love unreturned has its rainbow.”
― J.M. Barrie, The Little Minister
Soundtrack : www.youtube.com/watch?v=C-BnRZ52jHs
The Closest Thing To Crazy by Katie Melua
There you are; so distantly; hidden behind the blossom where lovers meet;
standing so pensively on castle stones trodden smooth
by the endless march of time and soldier's feet.
There you dream so deeply; scented flowers wafting by, in clouds of white,
falling gently to the ground, like angel feathers float down from the skies at night.
I look to you in vain hope you will see how much your story means to me,
but we are parted by nine hundred years and a thousand deep seated memories;
through layered time and misty veils of weathered treasures,
I seek the truth of all that went before and ancient pleasures.
My romantic heart has travelled through the morning haze,
to find you here and follow quietly the direction of your silent gaze.
I wonder if you will ever look my way or brighten up my darkest day.
I trace your steps across the lawn and make my way; to await the dawn.
I'm surer than I've ever been that lost in time; a change of scene,
our love that once traversed the universe was never just a dream.
In my pocket I carry with me the musty yellowed remnants of what you wrote;
imprinted on my mind and soaked by tears I shed and filled with hope.
Is it possible to transcend the sands of time and love at last will find a home
within a heart where sorrow lived so long that love was left no room …
- AP - Copyright remains with the author
'copyright image please do not reproduce without permission'
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!
I've reached the 1000 photos limit (for non-Pro accounts, 950 public and 50 private or shared only with friends), and I have no more photos to erase, each of the ones that are still here represents a special moment for me or contains a special comment or tag, which I feel it's sincerely written.
This photo stream ends here, after almost eight years on Flickr, with wholehearted thanks for your friendship and encouragement.
I was lucky to meet fabulous people, learned so much, and my gratitude is immense.
I will return soon with a new photo stream and it will be a joy and an honor to regain my friends.
I will not erase this account, it is so precious to me for the reasons previously described, and I will return to it from time to time just to remember the good old days ❤
Best wishes to all,
Love
Ela
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
It was supposed to be a girl
We had planned our whole lives for it
Me, finally pregnant and happy
We fixed up the spare bedroom as the nursery
Probably too many pink frills
But the way the light hit the sheer curtains
Made me more hopeful about being a mother
Soon. my belly grew and grew
Out of control
By the end of my maternity leave,
I couldn’t fit it any ambulance
And so cold
I shivered uncontrollably even in August.
My fingers and toes are still numb
That's when I knew this would be no ordinary birth.
This baby wasn't meant just for us
It was meant for the world to share.
**All poems and photos are copyrighted**
“Are you a poem?”
I asked.
“Flowing
in phrases,
uttering
gasps and sigh?”
“Hah!”
She thundered
in a dismissive giggle
and said,
“Poem?
Poems don't cry.”
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
Poema de Víctor Hugo, a su hija Léopoldine.
Demain, dès l'aube, à l'heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m'attends.
J'irai par la forêt, j'irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.
Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.
Je ne regarderai ni l'or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et, quand j'arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.
Victor Hugo
Les Contemplations, 1856)
Mañana, al alba, a la hora en que blanquea la campiña,
partiré. ¿Ves?, sé que me esperas.
Iré por el bosque, iré por la montaña.
No puedo permanecer lejos de ti más tiempo.
Caminaré con los ojos fijos en mis pensamientos,
Sin ver nada de fuera, sin oír ningún ruido,
Solo, desconocido, con la espalda encorvada, con las manos cruzadas,
Triste, y el día para mí será como la noche.
No miraré ni el oro de la tarde que cae,
Ni las velas a lo lejos que descienden hacia Harfleur,
Y, cuando llegue, pondré sobre tu tumba
Un ramillete de acebo verde y de brezo en flor.
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/
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© 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.
'I wandered lonely as a cloud,
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.
By William Wordsworth
I like this poem, and the row of daffodils guarding the holly hedge in my garden reminded me ot 'the host of golden daffodils'.
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