Poems, Poems, Poems
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'Poem in Pink' is a macro photograph of Bougainvillea leaves. (The leaves are colorful, but the flowers and small, white and within the leaves).
rose from the depths
mountains, nebulae, oceans
in the infinity nest
they became a silvery and golden echo from afar
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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The things that make us different
Are things that make us the same
We don’t share a first
Or even a last name
You don’t dress the way that I do
And my music hurts your ears
But as the earth is spinning
We share all seasons and years
Listen to my story
I want to hear all yours too
Then maybe at the end you’ll see
I’m just the same as you. . .
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
“Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky.”
~ Kahlil Gibran
Taken at High Park
High Park is a municipal park in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. High Park is a mixed recreational and natural park, with sporting facilities, cultural facilities, educational facilities, gardens, playgrounds and a zoo. One-third of the park remains in a natural state, with a rare oak savannah ecology. High Park was opened to the public in 1876 and is based on a bequest of land from John George Howard to the City of Toronto. It spans 161 hectares (400 acres) and is the second-largest municipal park in Toronto, after Centennial Park.
High Park is located to the west of downtown Toronto, north of Humber Bay, and is maintained by the City of Toronto. It stretches south from Bloor Street West to The Queensway, just north of Lake Ontario. It is bounded on the west by Ellis Park Road and Grenadier Pond and on the east by Parkside Drive.
Source: Wikipedia
Happy Tuesday!💝 HTT!!
Thank you for your visits, kind comments, awards and faves. Always greatly appreciated.
Copyright 2021 ©️ Gloria Sanvicente
Maybe I wasn't listening,
Or maybe you weren't saying anything important.
Either way.
I don't hear you.
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.
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.
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 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!
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
“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
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! :)
i loved my friend. he went away from me. there’s nothing more to say. the poem ends, soft as it began - i loved my friend.
langston hughes
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
It is a willow when summer is over,
a willow by the river
from which no leaf has fallen nor
bitten by the sun
turned orange or crimson.
The leaves cling and grow paler,
swing and grow paler
over the swirling waters of the river
as if loth to let go.
- William Carlos Williams
-------------------------------------------------
Textures by diAnNa and Joes Sistah
Fauré by
Thylacine
Music by French composer Gabriel Fauré (1845-1924).
remixed by Thylacine, French electronic music producer.
m.youtube.com/watch?v=Kuk0Bq2BMkQ&list=RDKuk0Bq2BMkQ&...
* * * * * * * * * * *
The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry's cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I'll put a trinket on.
By Emily Dickinson, 1862
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/
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© 2010 Anuj Nair. All rights reserved.
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________________________________________________
© 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.
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
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)
Explored highest position: 44 on Tuesday, September 29, 2020
"Antes que el sueño (o el terror) tejiera
mitologías y cosmogonías,
antes que el tiempo se acuñara en días,
el mar, el siempre mar, ya estaba y era
¿Quién es el mar? ¿Quién es aquel violento
y antiguo ser que roe los pilares
de la tierra y es uno y muchos mares
y abismo y resplandor y azar y viento?
Quien lo mira lo ve por vez primera,
siempre. Con el asombro que las cosas
elementales dejan, las hermosas
tardes, la luna, el fuego de una hoguera.
¿Quién es el mar, quién soy? Lo sabré el día
ulterior que sucede a la agonía."
Jorge Luis Borges
(English translation from rationalleycat.blogspot.com/2010/03/el-mar-traducido-por-...)
Before the dream (or the terror) could weave
Mythologies and cosmogonies,
Before the time could mint itself into days,
The sea, the always sea, it had been and it was.
Who is the sea? Who is that violent
Antique being that gnaws at the pillars
Of the earth and is one and many of the seas
And abyss and splendor and chance and wind?
Who looks on it sees it for the first time.
Always. With that wonder which all things
Elementary leave behind, the beauty
In evenings, the moon, flame of the bonfire.
Who is the sea, who am I? I will know it
In the days to come that follow the agony.
Jorge Francisco Isidoro Luis Borges Acevedo (24 August 1899 – 14 June 1986) was an Argentine short-story writer, essayist, poet and translator, and a key figure in Spanish-language and universal literature. His best-known books, Ficciones (Fictions) and El Aleph (The Aleph), published in the 1940s, are compilations of short stories interconnected by common themes, including dreams, labyrinths, philosophers, libraries, mirrors, fictional writers, and mythology.[3] Borges' works have contributed to philosophical literature and the fantasy genre, and have been considered by some critics to mark the beginning of the magic realist movement in 20th century Latin American literature.[4] His late poems converse with such cultural figures as Spinoza, Camões, and Virgil.
Jorge Francisco Isidoro Luis Borges Acevedo; 24 August 1899 – 14 June 1986) was an Argentine short-story writer, essayist, poet and translator, and a key figure in Spanish-language and universal literature. Borges' works have contributed to philosophical literature and the fantasy genre, and have been considered by some critics to mark the beginning of the magic realist movement in 20th century Latin American literature. His late poems converse with such cultural figures as Spinoza, Camões, and Virgil. (from Wikipedia)
Happy Monochrome Monday, everyone!
'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'.
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.
loftið verður skyndilega kalt | ólafur arnalds
youtu.be/6i6Jm1kFYlk?si=p-PjPZvJGlEGTjbS
The air suddenly turns cold,
and silence drapes the ground.
A frail flower bends,
clinging to its last breath of light.
Time does not rage
it whispers,
it takes softly,
until even beauty
is nothing but memory in the dust.
by bes~•
Seeing its shadow on the red exterior
With that sun decoration it thought
I am in the wrong place
I don’t have a bed to lie down in
Or a cat to cuddle up with
There are dishes in the sink
But they aren’t mine
The smell of tacos all throughout
The squeeze of confinement
A hug that tells you that you belong here
In this small defined space called Home
Where you can dance to Tom Petty with your lover
Just one instead of many
How it might feel to be monogamous
Wake up every day next to your chosen human
See their chest rise then fall
Know they are alive and together you can
Have so many adventures
Maybe even go on a hike!
**All photos are copyrighted**