By Marianne Moore of ice. Deceptively reserved and flat, it lies ‘in grandeur and in mass’ beneath a sea of shifting snow-dunes; dots of cyclamen-red and maroon on its clearly defined pseudo-podia made of glass that will bend–a much needed invention– comprising twenty-eight ice-fields from fifty to five hundred feet thick, of unimagined delicacy. ‘PickingContinue reading “An Octopus – Poetry”
La conscience humaine est morte ; dans l’orgie, Sur elle il s’accroupit ; ce cadavre lui plaît ; Par moments, gai, vainqueur, la prunelle rougie, Il se retourne et donne à la morte un soufflet.
“you were so afraid of my voice i decided to be afraid of it too”
Emily Dickinson possessed the gift of mystic vision, and that vision is displayed brilliantly in this fantabulous little poem that offers a little drama of two butterflies on a magical flight. Two Butterflies went out at Noon— And waltzed above a Farm— Then stepped straight through the Firmament And rested on a Beam— And then—togetherContinue reading “Two Butterflies went out at Noon – Emily Dickinson”
The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here. Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in. I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions. I have given my name and myContinue reading “Tulips BY SYLVIA PLATH”
Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me Remembering again that I shall die And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks For washing me cleaner than I have been Since I was born into solitude. Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon: ButContinue reading “Rain BY EDWARD THOMAS – Poetry”
It’s that time of the year again when I pick one lovely poem from Eminescu (well known Romanian poet) and this year, I’ve chosen a ballad of love and yearning where the man is desperately waiting for his lover to come to him. Some finer points lost in translation are the use of the possessiveContinue reading “De ce nu-mi vii? … Mihai Eminescu”
I will lend you, for a little time, A child of mine, He said. For you to love the while he lives, And mourn for when he’s dead.
One Sister have I in our house, And one, a hedge away. There’s only one recorded, But both belong to me.
When I die I want your hands on my eyes: I want the light and the wheat of your beloved hands to pass their freshness over me one more time to feel the smoothness that changed my destiny.