Poems, Poems, Poems
View allAll Photos Tagged poems
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.
Aquesta mirada no és la meva.
Els meus ulls viuen a quilòmetres,
observant en silenci
la Remor d'unes herbes.
Anna Gual
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
Between snow and rain stands these resilient droplets on a November morning. Have a great week ahead.
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.
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
*
*
* Vista nocturna de la Torre Eiffel. Fotografía tomada con teleobjetivo a últimas horas de la tarde, en el lubricán del crepúsculo vespertino. París. Francia.
* La Torre Eiffel, está ubicada en el extremo del Campo de Marte a la orilla del río Sena. Es el símbolo de la capital parisina. Cuenta con una altura de cerca de 330 metros. Fue construida para las Exposiciones Universales de 1889 y 1900, y en su momento generó cierta controversia entre los artistas de la época, que la veían como un monstruo de hierro. A lo largo del siglo XX fue utilizada como antenas de comunicación. En la actualidad es el símbolo turístico más importante de Francia.
Traemos a colación en estos momentos un breve poema del poeta chileno Vicente Huidobro sobre la famosa Torre.
Torre Eiffel
guitarra del cielo,
tu telegrafía sin hilos
atrae las palabras
como un rosal las abejas
durante la noche.
El Sena deja de correr,
telescopio o clarín
Torre Eiffel,
y es una colmena de palabras
o un tintero de miel.
Al fondo del alba.
una araña de patas de alambre
tejía su tela de nubes.
(VICENTE HUIDOBRO. Torre Eiffel.)
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
De Mus (poem by Jan Hanlo)
Tjielp tjielp – tjielp tjielp tjielp
tjielp tjielp tjielp – tjielp tjielp
tjielp tjielp tjielp tjielp tjielp tjielp
tjielp tjielp tjielp
Tjielp
etc.
“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
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
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
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.
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.
My artwork and poem showed at EMERGENT, the beautiful gallery of Ilyra Chardin.
"I know this ancient darkness
gray rooms foggy lights
maze of earthy caves
Claustrophobic funicular buildings
and doors suspended in a leaden sky
Loneliness of old warehouses
and mysterious presences
Here I am back
night mirror of the day
but this is no longer my world
Now I live in the sun and wind
without the need for wings"
© Eli Medier
The Exhibition will be open till March 7th 2020
featured artists:
Eli Medier
Ilyra Chardin
Ladmilla Medier
Patrick Ireland
Sisi Biedermann
Thanks to all the friendly people that favour my picture.
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.
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.
🎶
¿Qué hacer?
Aprender los huecos
caminar
hacia lo que se fuga
inventarse en el devenir:
que la tensión sea simiente
fruto
árbol al que trepamos
para ver más lejos y
seguir soñando.
Arturo Borra
To do?
Learn the gaps to walk towards what escapes,
invent in the future:
let the tension be seed
fruit
tree that we climb to see further and keep dreaming.
Arturo Borra
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