زهرة قطن نوفمبر
سوسة القطن في طريقها، وبرد الشتاء،
أضفى على سويقات القطن لون الصدأ، كمواسم فات أوانها،
والقطن، شحيح كثلج جنوبي،
الغصن يتهاوى؛ رخواً شديد الذبول،
لا يصلح أن يكون مجرفة لأوراق الخريف؛
التربة اجتاحها القحط مسبباً بانجرافها
جفاف كل مياه السواقي؛ طيورٌ ميتةٌ وجدت
في الآبار على عمق مائة قدم تحت سطح الأرض
و هذا هو الفصل الذي تفتحت فيه الزهرة
الدهشة أصابت كبار القوم، وسرعان ما حلوا اللغز
الخرافة رأت
ما لم تره من قبل قط:
عيون بنية وقعت في حبها دونما وجل،
حُسْنٌ لا يخطر ببال أحد في مثل ذلك الوقت من السنة.
Jean Toomer
1894-1967
Tags: poems jean-toomer
The townspeople took the prince for dead
When he never returned with the dragon’s head
When with her, he stayed
She thought he’d be too afraid
But he loved her too much instead.
Tags: love poetry fantasy dragons dragon poems lovers
L'Heure Exquise
La lune blanche
Luit dans les bois ;
De chaque branche
Part une voix
Sous la ramée...
Ô bien-aimée.
L’étang reflète,
Profond miroir,
La silhouette
Du saule noir
Où le vent pleure...
Rêvons, c’est l’heure.
Un vaste et tendre
Apaisement
Semble descendre
Du firmament
Que l’astre irise...
C’est l’heure exquise.
I find no peace, and all my war is done,
I fear and hope; I burn and freeze like ice;
I fly above the wind yet can I not arise;
And naught I have and all the world I seize on.
That looseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison,
And holdeth me not, yet can I scape nowise;
Nor letteth me live nor die at my devise,
And yet of death it giveth none occasion.
Without eyen I see, and without tongue I plain;
I desire to perish, and yet I ask health;
I love another, and thus I hate myself;
I feed me in sorrow, and laugh in all my pain.
Likewise displeaseth me both death and life
And my delight is causer of this strife.
Nothing is a masterpiece - a real masterpiece - till it's about two hundred years old. A picture is like a tree or a church, you've got to let it grow into a masterpiece. Same with a poem or a new religion. They begin as a lot of funny words. Nobody knows whether they're all nonsense or a gift from heaven. And the only people who think anything of 'em are a lot of cranks or crackpots, or poor devils who don't know enough to know anything. Look at Christianity. Just a lot of floating seeds to start with, all sorts of seeds. It was a long time before one of them grew into a tree big enough to kill the rest and keep the rain off. And it's only when the tree has been cut into planks and built into a house and the house has got pretty old and about fifty generations of ordinary lumpheads who don't know a work of art from a public convenience, have been knocking nails in the kitchen beams to hang hams on, and screwing hooks in the walls for whips and guns and photographs and calendars and measuring the children on the window frames and chopping out a new cupboard under the stairs to keep the cheese and murdering their wives in the back room and burying them under the cellar flags, that it begins even to feel like a religion. And when the whole place is full of dry rot and ghosts and old bones and the shelves are breaking down with old wormy books that no one could read if they tried, and the attic floors are bulging through the servants' ceilings with old trunks and top-boots and gasoliers and dressmaker's dummies and ball frocks and dolls-houses and pony saddles and blunderbusses and parrot cages and uniforms and love letters and jugs without handles and bridal pots decorated with forget-me-nots and a piece out at the bottom, that it grows into a real old faith, a masterpiece which people can really get something out of, each for himself. And then, of course, everybody keeps on saying that it ought to be pulled down at once, because it's an insanitary nuisance.
Joyce CaryTags: art seeds christianity religion ghosts poems nonsense love-letters masterpiece cranks blunderbusses crackpots dry-rot gifts-from-heaven insanitary-nuisances jugs-without-handles old-bones parrot-cages
anyone who has no feelings for animals has a dead heart.
Raegan ButcherTags: poetry prison poems animals-love
Gazing from the moon, we see one earth, without borders, Mother Earth, her embrace encircling one people, humankind.
Frederick GlaysherTags: poetry literature poems essays universality beyond-postmodernism frederick-glaysher
We may know who we are or we may not. We may be Muslims, Jews or Christians but until our hearts become the mould for every heart we will see only our differences.
Rumi (Jalal ad-Din Muhammad ar-Rumi)Tags: poems rumi little-book-of-love speak-to-the-heart
The Weaver
My life is but a weaving
between my Lord and me;
I cannot choose the colors
He worketh steadily.
Oft times He weaveth sorrow
And I, in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper,
And I the underside.
Not til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly,
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.
The dark threads are as needful
In the Weaver's skillful hand,
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.
Tags: poetry poem religious poems religious-faith inpsirational
I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon,
In the round-tower of my heart,
And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in the dust away!
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