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

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Ali Mahmoud Taha - Egypt

Egyptian Serenade

Night has come. Let us go then, Goddess of my dreams.
The Angel of Love has called us to the glory of his altar.
Darkness stirs up hymns and songs,
Its joy pervades the water, trees and clouds.
Let us dream now, for this is our night of love.
Let us stand along the Nile,
Where moonlight, lustrous as a baby's skin,
Floods the green bank beyond its water and its shade.
Let us play as it plays, kissing the roses and the dew.
There on the hillside, grass will be our cradle,
Silence will enfold our souls, Love's nightingale will trill.

There, a sail shimmers on a sea of light,
And sways us along banks Of bright enchantment;
Night stars murmur like beautiful eyes,
While you are at my lips, and in my arms,
A sylph whose heart is throbbing.
Let us dream now, for this is our night of love.
Summer nights are dreams,
And only lovers can perceive them,
The rapture dwells within us when the wine is gone,
The glowing cup we hold still sings and sparkles.
So let us drink our fill tonight from the sweet well of passion
Let us dream now, for this is our night of love.


A Rustic Song

When the water caresses the shade of the tree,
And the clouds court the light of the moon;
And the birds send forth their song
To re-echo between dew and blossom;
And the ringdove laments her passion,
Cooing to her love and bemoaning her fate;
And the lips of the breeze pass over the Nile,
Kissing every passing sail;
And the earth brings forth from its night,
There in its shade I take my place,
With heart distraught and saddened gaze.
I let my eyes wander through the skies,
My head downcast and sunk in thought.
Then, I see your face beneath the palm tree,
And by the river I hear your voice,
Until darkness is tired of my loneliness,
And sadness complains of boredom;
Until creation wonders at my bewilderment,
And the morningstar
Takes pity on me;
And I go on my way,
To search again in hope
For our encounter
At the longed-for hour.


The Blind Musician

When the moon wraps the earth in silvery light,
When the wind moans or raging lightning flashes,
When dawn opens the eyes of the tender narcissi,
I weep for the Flower who weeps with unshed tears.

Beautiful Lady, show Fate the bleeding place
Where the Archer's arrow hit the mark.
Let the sunrise touch a parched star
And soak up light from the well of your sublimity.

Let Dawn's tears kiss your sunset.
Do not lose yourself in sorrow for all the days you've lost
All around you is the universe: see it with your touch.
Take the flowers in your hands, leave the throns for my soul.

When night falls and silence spreads over the valley
Take your guitar. Seek your inspiration from the sorrowing clouds,
And move the stars to pity for a star without light.
Perhaps your song will draw down rays of mercy.

When birds in their humming nests
Pierce the branches in the garden with their warbling,
The fluttering music of my thoughts comes to you,
Singns out my poems, pays tribute to your beauty.

When the dew melts on the tender leaves
And the Golden Cruet pours its fragrance into flowers' cups,
I pray the Dream-Nymphs in their magic realm
To melt their tune into your eyelids, melt the sorrow in my heart.
 

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