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“How to Write a Poem

 

Catch the air

around the butterfly.”

 

― Katerina Stoykova Klemer

  

"A picture is a poem without words."

Quote - Horace

 

Ice-abstract.

'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. . .

 

Credits . . .

“A picture is a poem without words.”

Horace

 

DSCN3457-002

Love Poem is a macro photograph of an anthurium.

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

#watercolors DP2017003-31x24

MonikaSeelig.com

Maybe I wasn't listening,

 

Or maybe you weren't saying anything important.

 

Either way.

 

I don't hear you.

 

Credits . . .

Spring has returned.

The earth is like a child

that knows poems.

R.M.Rilke

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!

BLOG

 

Blog Featuring brands are

Dictatorshop in Swank

 

220ml in Man Cave Event

More Detail credit in blog.

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

maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Life%20Island/89/133/23

“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

 

"I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree"

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/

------------------------------------------------------

© 2010 Anuj Nair. All rights reserved.

-------------------------------------------------------

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.

 

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)

 

 

m.youtube.com/watch?v=3gu7FVsC8y0

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.

 

m.youtube.com/watch?v=r0OvZm7sFnI&list=PL_ErzMucZB0Ph...

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**

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