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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“at this, shahrāzad saw the approach of morning, and discreetly fell silent.”

listen, and i will tell you

viki holmes - Wales / HK

 

she is dreaming again:

djinns and sherbet

cave mouths and genii

they are in love with words,

this pair, rain from her mouth

like kisses

 

on his oiled beard, proud chin:

he will not touch her, though she is

moon-pale, dewy as twilight

but he will grasp at her stories,

coast like a trireme on these

swelling tides: there is

no rest for them,

 

they have not touched,

these lovers, yet she blushes

at his look, she knows his need

to hear, her need to speak.

 

the nights go on.

 

perspiration

beads his brow, her lip

the perfumed air is warm,

they have forgotten all but

when the story ends

and where it starts:

 

infinity plus one, they do not

wish to draw apart, the sun will rise

when, heavy-lidded, they retire.

 

she dreams of listeners, now:

he is her own reflected voice

she does not live, except at night,

his cushioned gaze on hers.

 

"وحينئذ، أدرك شهرزاد الصباح فأمسكت عن الكلام المباح"

انصت، وسأخبرك

ڤيكي هولمز - ويلز / هونج كونج

ترجمة: سيد جودة - مصر / هونج كونج

 

هي تحلم ثانية ً:

بالجن وبالشرباتْ

أفواه الكهف وبالجنيّ

هم في عشق الكلمة ْ

هذان الزوجان ، مثل القبلاتِ

 

على لحيتهِ المدهونة بالزيتِ، وذقنٍ متكبرْ

لن يلمسها ، وهي البيضاء كمثل القمرِ ،

النديانة مثل ضياء الفجرْ

يتشبث بحكاياها ،

يرسو كالزورق فوق الأمواج المنتفخة ْ

لا راحة لهما

 

لم يتماسَ المحبوبانْ

مع هذا ، هي خجلى

من نظرتهِ ، تعلم حاجته ُ

أن يسمع ، حاجتها أن تحكي.

 

وتمر ليالْ

العرق على حاجبهِ ، وعلى شفتيها قطراتْ

وهواءٌ عطرٌ دافئْ

نسيا كل الأشياء سوى

أين نهاية هذي القصة ْ؟

ومتى تبدأ :

 

أول ليلة ْ

بعد الأبدية ْ

لا يشتهيان فراقاً

الشمس ستشرق ُ

حين ينامانْ

بعيون ٍ ناعسةٍ

 

هي تحلم بالمستمعين ، الآنْ :

فهـْو صداها

هي لا تحيا ، إلا في الليلِ ،

نظرتهُ ترتاح على نظرتها.

 

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