Poems, Poems, Poems
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this is just one of a bazillion beautiful scenes to behold at The Flower of Scotland. Read about it here on The SLuggle.
the title of the picture I thought should come from Scotland's Robert Burns, and it's from a lovely love poem called Composed in August which you can find here.
Amsterdam - Vondelpark - Eerste Constantijn Huygensstraat
Copyright - All images are copyright © protected. All Rights Reserved. Copying, altering, displaying or redistribution of any of these images without written permission from the artist is strictly prohibited.
♫ Mood The Beatles (Matt Hylom acoustic cover)
Evening Walk
by Charles Simic
You give the appearance of listening
To my thoughts, O trees,
Bent over the road I am walking
On a late summer evening
When every one of you is a steep staircase
The night is slowly descending.
The high leaves like my mother’s lips
Forever trembling, unable to decide,
For there’s a bit of wind,
And it’s like hearing voices,
Or a mouth full of muffled laughter,
A huge dark mouth we can all fit in
Suddenly covered by a hand.
Everything quiet. Light
Of some other evening strolling ahead,
Long-ago evening of silk dresses,
Bare feet, hair unpinned and falling.
Happy heart, what heavy steps you take
As you follow after them in the shadows.
The sky at the road’s end cloudless and blue.
The night birds like children
Who won’t come to dinner.
Lost children in the darkening woods.
rose from the depths
mountains, nebulae, oceans
in the infinity nest
they became a silvery and golden echo from afar
No one remembered to put in their original teeth
at the plant nursing home
so they can’t tell the nurses and aides
to turn off Fox news
and they wither like they’ve been
left for an eternity to suffer
for all their long lost sins.
**All poems and photos are copyrighted**
" 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
T'was the night before Christmas
he lived all alone
In a one bedroom house made of plaster and stone
I had come down the chimney with
presents to give
and to see just who in this dweling did
live
I looked all around a strange site to
see
No tinsel, no presents, not even a
tree
No stockings on the mantle just boots filled
with sand
On the wall hung pictures of far
distant lands
Medals and Badges, Awards every
kind
A sobering thought came alive in my
mind
This house was different, it was
dark, it was deary
I had found the home of a
soldier
I could see that most clearly
The soldier lie sleeping, silent, alone
Curled up on the floor in this one
bedroom home
His face was so gentle, the room in
such disorder
Not at all how I pictured a
United States Soldier
Was this the hero of whom I'd just read
Curled up on a poncho, the floor for
a bed
Then I realized the other families
that I saw on this night
Hold their lives to soldiers, who are
willing to fight
In the morning around the
world, the children would play
Grown-ups would celebrate a bright
Christmas Day
But they all enjoy freedom each
month of the year
Because of soldiers like the one lying
here
I couldn't help but wonder, how many
lay alone?
On a cold Christmas Eve in lands far
from home
The very thought brought a tear to my
eye
I dropped to my knees and I
started to cry
The soldier awakened, I heard his
ruff voice
Santa don't cry, this life is my
choice...
...I fight for freedom, I don't ask for
more...
...My life is my God, my country, my
core
The soldier rolled over and drifted to
sleep
But I couldn't control it and I
continued to weep
I kept watch for hours... so silent and
still
as both of us shivered from the cold
nights chill
I didn't want to leave him on that cold
dark night
This guardian of honor, so willing to
fight
then the soldier rolled over with a
voice soft and pure
He whispered Carry on Santa, it's
Christmas Day...
...all secure One look at my watch
and I knew he was right
Merry Christmas my friend, may God
Bless you this night
Sint Nicholaskerk is the most seen and at the same time overlooked church in Amsterdam as well as being one its most recent constructions, no one can miss this iconic structure upon arrival to the city walking from Centraal Station your eye is immediately drawn to it at 58 m in height it towers over the city skyline.
This Roman Catholic Church was designed by Architect Adrianus Bleijs and is a nod to the past combining elements of neo-Baroque and neo-Renaissance styles, completed in 1887 it was made a minor Basilica in 2012.
The church is dedicated to the 4th century charitable patron saint of children that became our Santa Claus as well as the patron saint of sailors and prostitutes, another winning combination.
In the Netherlands Santa Claus is known as Sinterklaas and a feast has been celebrated for over 700 years in his name and adopted in the early part of 20th century the tradition of leaving small gifts in children’s shoes was practiced on Dec 6th which has evolved now to become a Dec 5th evening tradition of gathering of family and friends to exchange gifts and laughter.
While Dutch Sinterklaas celebrations are mainly for the children its adult component is an annual grievance poem written to the recipient that must rhyme and be read out loud by the subject at the evening party all in good fun but beware you may get as good as you give.
I took this on Sept 10th, 2017 with my D750 and Nikon 28-300mm f/3.5-5.6 Lens at 58mm 15 sec f/16 ISO100 processed in LR, PS +Lumenzia, Topaz , Luminar and DXO
Disclaimer: My style is a study of romantic realism as well as a work in progress
Maybe I wasn't listening,
Or maybe you weren't saying anything important.
Either way.
I don't hear you.
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.
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! :-)
www.instagram.com/lightcrafter.artistry
On a recent trip to the Black Hills of South Dakota, my brother and I spent some time rock climbing and hiking in Spearfish Canyon.
Spending time in the outdoors has always held a revitalizing, healing power for me, and I think many people can relate to this.
The sweet, spicy smell of pine, the sound of a gentle wind seething through pine needles, the steady white-noise of river-rapids, the lazy, afternoon sun warning my skin, and a silence unbroken by the the incessant clamor of the city; I breathe deep, calm my mind, and feel connected to Nature, to Earth, to the Universe.
To anyone who reads this, I hope you take the time yourself to "get away from it all" and find refreshment and perspective in your life through the healing power that Nature holds. I'll leave you with a poem suggestion that sums up these feelings, and after which I titled this photo: Thanatopsis, by William Cullen Bryant. Granted, it's a bit trite and cloying at times, but I like it. Oh, and Willam was only 17 when he wrote it, so give the young romantic a little credit.
Thanks to Karen McQuilkin for suggesting and providing a link to a reading of the poem!
www.youtube.com/watch?v=hGvX15W5dE4&feature=youtu.be
All images © 2017 Daniel Kessel.
All rights reserved
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
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
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
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
I feel pleasantly old and stupid, deciding
not to worry about who I am but how I spend
my days, until I tear in the weak places
like a thin, worn sheet. Back in my room
I can't hear the river passing like time,
or the moon emerging from the shadow of earth,
but I can see the water that never repeats itself.
It's very difficult to look at the World
and into your heart at the same time.
In between, a life has passed.
Jim Harrison
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.
Poems Of The Atoms — Armand Amar
youtu.be/si6rLeYU5BQ?si=o3z_wtnXWcnESZeV
O day, arise! The atoms are dancing.
The souls are dancing, overcome with ecstasy.
I'll whisper in your ear where their dance is taking them.
All the atoms in the air and in the desert know well, they seem insane.
Every single atom, happy or miserable,
Becomes enamoured of the sun, of which nothing can be said.
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.
It's good that you are, what a marvel that I am!
Two different songs, colliding, blending,
Two colors never before seen together,
One very low, turned towards the ground,
One very high, almost torn in the frosty air,
An unmatched battle of wonder that you are,
Of chance that I am
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.