Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away. Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance - Carl Sandburg..........Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject - John Keats .........Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge - William Wordsworth ..........Poets utter great and wise things which they do not themselves understand - Plato .........No man was ever yet a great poet, without being at the same time a profound philosopher. For poetry is the blossom and the fragrance of all human knowledge, human thoughts, human passions, emotions, language - Samuel Taylor Coleridge .........One demands two things of a poem. Firstly, it must be a well-made verbal object that does honor to the language in which it is written. Secondly, it must say something significant about a reality common to us all, but perceived from a unique perspective. What the poet says has never been said before, but, once he has said it, his readers recognize its validity for themselves - W. H. Auden ...........Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash - Leonard Cohen .........There is a pleasure in poetic pains which only poets know - William Cowper .........Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood -T. S. Eliot ..........Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason - Novalis...........He who draws noble delights from sentiments of poetry is a true poet, though he has never written a line in all his life - George Sand .........A poem is never finished, only abandoned - Paul Valery ........A poet is a bird of unearthly excellence, who escapes from his celestial realm arrives in this world warbling. If we do not cherish him, he spreads his wings and flies back into his homeland - Kahlil Gibran.............Poetry should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance - John Keats..........To be a poet is a condition, not a profession - Robert Frost........A poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself - E. M. Forster.........Publishing a volume of verse is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo - Don Marquis...........Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things - T. S. Eliot ..........You can tear a poem apart to see what makes it tick. You're back with the mystery of having been moved by words. The best craftsmanship always leaves holes and gaps so that something that is not in the poem can creep, crawl, flash or thunder in - Dylan Thomas .........Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words - Paul Engle......... There is not a joy the world can give like that it takes away! Lord Byron

 

 
   
   
   

أمل دنقل - مصرThe Coming Testament

Amal Donkul - Egypt

 

Chapter I

 

In the beginning I was man, woman and tree

I was father, son and holy ghost

I was morning, evening and the circular fixed gaze

My throne was stones on the banks of river

Sheep grazed

Bees buzzed around blossoms

Geese floated in silence lake

And life throbbed like a distant mill

When I saw:

That all I see can't save the heart from boredom

(Cockfights were my one entertainment

In my lonely seat among entangled branches)

   
   

Abdul Wahab Al-Bayati

 About Waddah of Yemen - Love and Death

Abdul Wahab Al-Bayyaty

Translate by Bassam k. Frangieh

 

1

From the cities of magic and the caves: Waddah arises,
Crowned by the moon of death and the fire of a shooting star,
Falling into the desert,
Carried like an orange nightingale
By the ogress with the caravans
To Syria.
A red feather
Is blown into the air by a magician
He wrote a charm on it
For the ladies of the cities of the wind
The words of the stones falling in the wells,
The dances of fire
Are blown into the chamber of the caliph
Becoming sometimes a poem,
Sometimes a virgin pearl

   
   

Mahmoud Darwish - PalestineThe Dice Player

(Excerpts)

Mahmoud Darwish - Palestine

Translated by Sayed Gouda - Egypt / Hong Kong

 

Who am I to say to you

What I say to you?

I’m not a stone

Polished by water

To become a face

Nor am I a stick of cane

With holes made by the wind

To become a flute ….

I’m a dice player

I win sometimes

I lose sometimes

I’m like you

Or a little bit less than you

I was born beside the well

Falling at the feet of Waddah

   

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click here 按这里 cliquez ici اضغط هنا

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zahir brahim - Morocco

adeebbrzahir@hotmail.fr

Thursday, May 5, 2011 7:17 PM

a love you ok

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