The First Jasmines Ah, these jasmines, these white jasmines! I seem to remember the first day when I filled my hands with these jasmines, these white jasmines. I have loved the sunlight, the sky and the green earth; I have heard the liquid murmur of the river through the darkness of midnight; Autumn sunsets have…
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When I Spoke to the Sky; My journey to love ends in you! He covered me from all over Went into hiding behind a moon, stars, rainbows, clouds,…never showed his real face! When I told the wind; I dreamt of being with you! A robust companion, I see in you. He scattered me all over…
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Wind is playing piano On this lake. Shadows of the trees are black keys. Shadows of the clouds are white keys. Playing sounds of nature, Song of the season, Birds are accompanying With their continuous chirping. My soul is singing the song of Eternity Harmony Peace On this blissful day! Nehal Poetry and Image ©…
Read MorePersephone Mother, the life you value’s A skeleton hung with bunting. A saxophone brash Blares out Duty! Duty! Duty! Stuck on its one high note. Mother, your world is trash! Why can’t you let me be? Dreams are mushrooming Down in my charcoal chamber, Under my muffled skies. Mother, I like my colourful life, Away…
Read Moreबूंदे धूँधले शीशों पर सरकती बूंदे। बारिष के रुकने पर पेडोंके पत्तो से बरसती बूंदे। कभी सोने सी; कभी हीरे सी चमकती बूंदे। परिंदे की गरदन पर थिरकती बूंदे। अपनी कोख में समाये हुए कइ इन्द्रधनु, फलक को रंग देती बूंदे! प्यासे की हलक से उतरते, दरिया बन जाती बूंदे! आँखों में छूप के बैठे तो;…
Read MoreHe became the most loved poet in America and won four times Pulitzer prize; long time before that…… Robert Frost lost his father at the age of 11, and after that he went through many hardships during his childhood. He started writing poetry at the age of sixteen and though his first poem was published…
Read MoreAlexander Pope ( 1688-1744) was born in London and became severely ill at the age of twelve so that his health was ruined and his body was deformed. He educated himself and at the age of sixteen published his first poems, Pastorals. He wrote much poetry and prose, but is famous for his satires. ..…
Read More‘O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell’ O SOLITUDE! if I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap of murky buildings; climb with me the steep- Nature’s observatory – whence the dell, Its flowery slopes, its river’s crystal swell, May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep ‘Mongst…
Read MoreJose Juan Tablada ( 1871- 1945) A poet, art critic and journalist, Tablada was one of the most fertile and questioning minds of his generation. A forerunner of modern poetry, he introduced the haiku into the Spanish language. – From Mexican Poetry An Anthology Compiled by Octavio Paz Translated by Samuel Beckett *. *. *.…
Read MoreSONG OF MYSELF – WALT WHITMAN A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child?…..I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. Or I…
Read MoreThe Aegean This music has lasted since the world began. A rock was born among the waters While tiny waves chatted in a soft universal tongue. The shell of a sea-turtle Would not have foretold the guitar. Your music has always risen to the sky. Green taproot. Mother Sea. First of all firsts. You enfold…
Read MoreListening to a Monk from Shu Playing the Lute The monk from Shu with his green lute-case walked Westward down Emei Shan, and at the sound Of the first notes he strummed for me I heard A thousand valleys’ rustling pines resound. My heart was cleansed, as if in flowing water. In bells of frost…
Read Moreઆવીશ? સવારનો સમય છે: બફારો છે અને તડકામાં એક પ્રતીતિકર ચમક પણ. વનસ્પતિનો હરિયાળો રંગ પણ ઠંડક વિનાનો લાગે છે. એક સુંદર મજાનું પીળું પંખી ત્યાં ઘાસ પર કૂદી રહ્યું છે બરાબર એ જ રીતે જેમ તું છે સુંદર નીરવ અને પ્રેમને ઘાસની જેમ ધીરે ધીરે ઓળખતી અને એનાથી પોતાને માટે અર્થ શોધતી. આ પંખીને…
Read MoreI save your music for my rainy-day songs; Save your sunshine for my petals and thorns; Save your clouds for my deserts and storms; Save your smile for the candles that light up the dark corners of my soul; Save your strings of waves to lace up my mundane days that drag along; Save your…
Read MoreNature rarer uses yellow Than another hue; Saves she all of that for sunsets,- Prodigal blue, Spending scarlet like a woman, Yellow she affords Only scantly and selectly, Like a lover’s words. . . . . . . . . . . I stepped from plank to plank So slow and cautiously; The Stars about…
Read MoreCoolness- the sound of the bell as it leaves the bell. * * * * * * * * White blossoms of the pear and a woman in moonlight reading a letter. . . . . . . . . Coming back- so many pathways through the spring grass. : : : : :…
Read MoreDeep autumn- my neighbour, how does he live, I wonder? -.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.- Autumn moonlight- a worm digs silently into the chestnut. *-*-*-*-*-*-*- First day of spring- I keep thinking about the end of autumn. :-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-: Spring! a nameless hill in the haze. .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.- The oak tree not interested in cherry blossoms -*-*-*-*-*-*-* Harvest moon- walking around…
Read MoreTo a Moutain Daisy, On Turning One Down with the Plough in April, 1786 Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow’r. Thou’s met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my pow’r. Thou bonie gem. Alas! it’s no thy neibor sweet. The bonie lark,…
Read MoreHave you reckoned a thousand acres much? Have you reckoned the earth much? Have you practiced so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems? Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, You shall posses the good…
Read MoreLet my love, like sunlight, surround you and yet give you illumined freedom. —- —- —- — — —- —- —- Days are coloured bubbles that float upon the surface of fathomless night. * * * * * * * * * April, like a child, writes hieroglyphs on dust with flowers, wipes them away…
Read MoreFrom French poems : translated by A.Poulin, JR A beautiful butterfly near the earth is displaying the illuminations of its flying book to an attentive nature. Another closes on the border of the flower that we breath; this is not the time to read. And still so many others, fragile blues scattered, floating and fluttering…
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