November, 2013

Fa-ti timp

POSTED IN classic poetry November 30, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fa-ti timp

În trecerea grăbită prin lume către veci,
Fă-ţi timp, măcar o clipă, să vezi pe unde treci!
Fă-ţi timp să vezi durerea şi lacrima arzând
Fă-ţi timp să poţi, cu mila, să te alini oricând!
Fă-ţi timp pentru-adevaruri şi adâncimi de vis,
Fă-ţi timp pentru prieteni, cu sufletul deschis!
Fă-ţi timp să vezi pădurea, s-asculţi lângă izvor,
Fă-ţi timp s-asculţi ce spune o floare, un cocor!
Fă-ţi timp, pe-un munte seara, stând singur să te rogi,
Fă-ţi timp, frumoase amintiri, de unul să invoci!
Fă-ţi timp să stai cu mama, cu tatăl tău – bătrâni…
Fă-ţi timp de-o vorbă bună, de-o coajă pentru câini…
În trecerea grăbită prin lume către veci,
Fă-ţi timp măcar o clipă să vezi pe unde treci!
Fă-ţi timp să guşti frumosul din tot ce e curat,
Fă-ţi timp, că eşti de multe mistere-nconjurat!
Fă-ţi timp cu orice taină sau adevăr să stai,
Fă-ţi timp, căci toate-acestea au inimă, au grai!
Fă-ţi timp s-asculţi la toate, din toate să înveţi,
Fă-ţi timp să dai vieţii adevăratul sens!
Fă-ţi timp, acum!
Să ştii: zadarnic ai să plângi,
Comoara risipită a vieţii, n-o mai strângi!

 

 

 

Anonymous

It all adds up

POSTED IN contemporary poetry November 30, 2013

It all adds up

I am the sum of the past
a past that never went
its momentum travels fast
freighting each precious
moment of this life
like lightening flashes
sometimes a brief glimpse
other times more intense.
A Venezuelan storm
that continuously sheds
unexpected illumination
refracting on the scene
I am the lightning
and the landscape, I am
all the colours of this life .

 

from PoetryZoo Abigael

 

 

Gael Bage

Pass the Blackout

POSTED IN contemporary poetry November 30, 2013

Pass the Blackout

You should know, sweet sailor,
    that every time the boatswain blows
sleepy taps into the misery pipe,
    a corsage of sea salt
blossoms on the wrists of standby wives
    sequestered in cap sleeves
and hot copper headaches.
    You should know the storm flag
is saluted when thunderclap
    erases the strategy in our smiles
and braids our breath into aiguillettes.
    Fieldstrip the stars like
the cherry of a cigarette,
    watch them fall windward as
gravity warps our chest medals into lifeboats,
    our dress whites into
hospital gowns.
    Goodnight nurse, ghost of Joan,
Before your dreams run aground
    know sweet sailor:
There’s a red phone at the
    bottom of every ocean
there’s a seabag full of sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

Brandon Courtney

The Burden

POSTED IN classic poetry November 29, 2013

Power Grid

POSTED IN contemporary poetry November 29, 2013

Power Grid

Come down from there.
I can imagine
More clearly your
Wistfulness as sculpture.

I made a painting
Of nothing. It’s
In my hallway. I
Know it’s a tree,

Or rather the soul
Of a tree. The
Wind in it gets caught
In the yellow

Branches. Somewhere deep
In its wood the
Dotted lines of a
Rainstorm. It’s just I’m

Too far away now.
I remember six
Actors in a
Split level white house.

The shower’s turned
On. The shower’s turned
Off. What might I chip
Away? I remember

Distinctly. My middle
Name’s not a name!
A noose dangled from
A rafter in the garage.

I know I was fifteen
Cutting up “death threats”
I’d written at twelve.
One was to Jonny Quest.

Something or nothing,
The sky pours off
Of that canvas.
If the grass spider

Keeps living through
Winter. He tells me
A story. His web
Bubbles up out of

An unused drain.
Paint for the blind,
Tulips. They burn
Until there is no frame.

 

 

 

 

 

David Dodd Lee

The Architect’s Widow

POSTED IN contemporary poetry November 29, 2013

The Architect’s Widow

Now, you only notice city windows
when thin light warms behind them,

shadows gathering in white pleats
of curtains, foggy as tracing paper,

their billows breaking the rigid frame.
This is what he meant by negative

space: not the domes of the cathedral,
but the places you stand to see

their familiar swell. Still, to watch you
startle at your reflection in the blisters

of his windows, your shoulders sloped
— gentle curve of a wingback chair —

the city’s wind snared between girders,
facades of red brick, the body’s tilt

in a warp of glass, is to know something
of the way light distorts the thing it touches.

Once, he told you that each bend in every
building has as many names as Rochester’s

phonebook: fanlight, oculus, loggia — yet,
no single word for the way rain darkens

the shingles of the steeple or how the roof’s
fixed line dovetails a blurred sky.

 

Brandon Courtney

First love

POSTED IN contemporary poetry November 29, 2013

Naked Soul

POSTED IN contemporary poetry November 19, 2013

Naked Soul

Futile winds blow
through a broken heart
the vessel flawed
it’s flow fragmented
cracks wide open

Stark naked
before humanities face
feeling vulnerable
in that dark
and lonely space

self leaks out
in a stream of tears
aimlessly to moon about
in a pool
of excuses and fears.

A dark fascination
this absence of light
Love
spreads diamante’
on the cloak of night

The broken vessel
lets in a new dawn.
The smallest pond
nightly
is creation’s mirror.

 

from Poetryzoo. Abigael

 

 

Gael Bage

The Art of Poetry

POSTED IN classic poetry November 14, 2013

The Art of Poetry

To gaze at a river made of time and water
And remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water.
To feel that waking is another dream
that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
we fear in our bones is the death
that every night we call a dream.
To see in every day and year a symbol
of all the days of man and his years,
and convert the outrage of the years
into a music, a sound, and a symbol.
To see in death a dream, in the sunset
a golden sadness–such is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry,
returning, like dawn and the sunset.
Sometimes at evening there’s a face
that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.
Art must be that sort of mirror,
disclosing to each of us his face.
They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
wept with love on seeing Ithaca,
humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,
a green eternity, not wonders.
Art is endless like a river flowing,
passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same
inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
and yet another, like the river flowing.

 

 

 

Jorge Luis Borges

Maybe I Might

POSTED IN contemporary poetry November 14, 2013

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