[Bluestar07]

Thanks electric!

[electricladyland]

I Hunt For A Sign Of You, Neruda

I hunt for a sign of you in all the others,
In the rapid undulant river of women,
Braids, shyly sinking eyes,
Light step that slices, sailing through the foam.

Suddenly I think I can make out your nails,
Oblong, quick, nieces of a cherry:
Then it's your hair that passes by, and I think
I see your image, a bonfire, burning in the water.

I searched, but no one else had your rhythms,
Your light, the shady day you brought from the forest;
Nobody had your tiny ears.

You are whole, exact, and everything you are is one,
And so I go along, with you I float along, loving
A wide Mississippi toward a feminine sea.

[Teratel]

Her eyes were like

her eyes were like eyes
her lips were like lips
her hair was like hair
her heart was like a metaphor

I was proud to be her only drawback
without me she'd been perfect
if she'd been perfect the world would have collapsed
I was happy to be guarding the world from her perfection

(New Poetry by Ken Abustani)

[Teratel]

English Poetry

"No time!"... "Time is money!"... The motto of hurrying life, especially for the times ahead of us.
But a moment of rest, a respite however brief, to turn towards Nature,
Poetry and things you like best, may safeguard you from "A poor life" the poet pities in the following lines..

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life is this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

(this was written in 1870 by: W.H. Davies)

[Teratel]

COMO LAS OLAS

SON nuestras vidas
como las olas: afán y espumas.
Las olas nacen diciendo: ahora,
y pronto mueren diciendo: nunca.

by: Domingo Rivero

POETICA

Todas
las palabras
son
una palabra.

Todos
los gestos
que inútilmente anduvo trazando
desde siempre,
un sólo gesto.

Todo
el amor,
uno.

by: Baltasar Espinosa (Los Dias 1961-67)
Para una amiga.. elec.

[electricladyland]

Excerpts from ODA AL LIBRO (I) by (guess who…) Neruda

Libro, cuando te cierro
abro la vida.

***
Líbro, déjame libre.
Yo no quiero ir vestido
de volumen,
yo no vengo de un tomo,
mis poemas
no han comido poemas,
devoran
apasionados acontecimientos,
se nutren de intemperie,
extraen alimento
de la tierra y los hombres.
Libro, déjame andar por los caminos
con polvo en los zapatos
y sin mitología:
vuelve a tu biblioteca,
yo me voy por las calles.

He aprendido la vida
de la vida,
el amor lo aprendí de un solo beso,
y no pude enseñar a nadie nada
sino lo que he vivido,
cuanto tuve en común con otros hombres,
cuanto luché con ellos:
cuanto expresé de todos en mi canto.

Para una colega…

[humor]

To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you like everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting. ~e.e. cummings, 1955

[*~stix~*]

WARMING HER PEARLS
Carol Ann Duffy

Next to my own skin, her pearls. My mistress
bids me wear them, warm them, until evening
when I'll brush her hair. At six, I place them
round her cool, white throat. All day I think of her,

resting in the Yellow Room, contemplating silk
or taffeta, which gown tonight? She fans herself
whilst I work willingly, my slow heat entering
each pearl. Slack on my neck, her rope.

She's beautiful. I dream about her
in my attic bed; picture her dancing
with tall men, puzzled by my faint, persistent scent
beneath her French perfume, her milky stones.

I dust her shoulders with a rabbit's foot,
watch the soft blush seep through her skin
like an indolent sigh. In her looking-glass
my red lips part as though I want to speak.

Full moon. Her carriage brings her home. I see
her every movement in my head ... Undressing,
taking off her jewels, her slim hand reaching
for the case, slipping naked into bed, the way

she always does ... And I lie here awake,
knowing the pearls are cooling even now
in the room where my mistress sleeps. All night
I feel their absence and I burn.

[*~stix~*]

STANDING FEMALE NUDE
Carol Ann Duffy

Six hours like this for a few francs.
Belly nipple arse in the window light,
he drains the colour from me. Further to the right,
Madame. And do try to be still.
I shall be represented analytically and hung
in great museums. The bourgeoisie will coo
at such an image of a river-bunny. They call it Art.

Maybe. He is concerned with volume, space.
I with the next meal. You're getting thin,
Madame, this is not good. My breasts hang
Slightly low, the studio is cold. In the tea-leaves
I can see the Queen of England gazing
on my shape. Magnificent, she murmurs
moving on. It makes me laugh. His name

is Georges. They tell me he's a genius.
There are times he does not concentrate
and stiffens for my warmth. Men think of their mothers.
he possesses me on canvas as he dips the brush
repeatedly into the paint. Little man,
you've not the money for the arts I sell.
Both poor, we make our living how we can.

I ask him. Why do you do this? Because
I have to. There's no choice. Don't talk.
My smile confuses him. These artists
take themselves too seriously. At night I fill myself
with wine and dance around the bars. When it's finished
he shows me proudly, lights a cigarette. I say
Twelve francs and get my shawl. It does not look like me.


The picture I hold of my dear multitudes

[*~stix~*]

Echoes of a Broken Child

Today's the day.
The day I'm going to unlock the door and bury the past.
The day I'm going to let go.

You smile,
I just turn away, looking up to meet the icy glare of the smug moon.
The geese attack my skin, but not with the same gentle pecks as before; they're angry now.
You look confused as you watch my sweat cool under the soft light of the stars.

The Earth stands motionless as we lie on Eden's bed, wrapped in my shell
that cracked when I pulled you to your knees.
The tiger marked my back, its lips greeted my sweet Paradise with a kiss;
its firm touch met with symphony and song from an arch-backed deceiver
with dancing fingers.

The tingles dissolve.
I feel sick. I don't let people this close to my soul.
How did you climb over the wall that surrounds this private property? Regrets.
I sometimes wander why I carry all this guilt ...
it was him who laid the foundations for all these walls I've built.
Time healed my black eye, but my heart will remain forever bruised.

People wander why I have a padlock bolted around my heart ...
my actions are the echoes of a broken child.

Today's not the day.
I can't let go.
But one day I'll find the key that fits the lock.

[electricladyland]

^^^ phew! wow...

[*~stix~*]

Quote:

Originally Posted by electricladyland ^^^ phew! wow...

see that exactly why I don't go to class much...

[electricladyland]

who wrote that?

[KatjaR]

Quote:

Originally Posted by jennifer~ My 'poem of the day' thread perhaps

From whom is this poem??

[*~stix~*]

Quote:

Originally Posted by electricladyland who wrote that?

I wrote it a couple of years ago when I was bored in History... I must have had a lot on my mind cos I sound so depressed ... i don't know, it makes no sense to me now.