Poetry is the journey 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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Poetry in English

 

Poems Featured in Issue 5 of Nadwah

GOD OF COINCIDENCE

Sydney Lea - USA


you might have been that long-legged
woman striking as tall as you
we came out of the very same Rothko exhibit
the show was all on one floor
so where in the world could she have been
she seemed rushed hailed a cab and fled a mere instant

I noticed her beauty no doubt
but more her eyesí sadness though they never met mine
her look conveyed well I canít say what
she shook out her hair at the car-door

More on page 18 (Issue 5)

HOME MUSEUM

Sydney Lea - USA


His motherís doll surveys the living room.
Her hair is humanĖ his grandpaís. Fragile and dry,
still it clings to the sham childís jaundiced muslin dome.
In the kitchen, he has assembled a Chinese puzzle,
acquired somewhere on a trip in an age gone by:
back, that is, in the days when he still traveled.

 

Iíve watched him push his granny glasses up
above his brow, in order to scrutinize

More on page 20 (Issue 5)

 

INTO WISDOM

Sydney Lea - USA


The young send their news by phone nowadays.
Iíve just watched a video from a son:
it shows his sweet-tempered three-year-old boy
winding a key inside a stuffed monkey,
then laying the musical toy in the crib
of his baby brother. Intent, he listens

More on page 22 (Issue 5)

THE SCHOOL OF THE POOR

Birgit Bunzel - Germany


Leaves quiver, compelled from below,
as though by the breath of the underworld.
The meadow, too, heaves in the wind,
and a heron with amber-beaded eyes
soars across the water with slow beats of
its wings.

More on page 28 (Issue 5)

SHOES ON THE TABLE

Lena Oh - South Korea


Mom, Iím home.
Shouting to the air,
You throw me, here and there.
You left me scattered,
But no words before we parted.
All my life, I have accompanied you
To every little corner you wanted to go.
I was there with you,
Walking miles and miles together.
Itís alright you donít thank me, ever.

More on page 29 (Issue 5)

Closed Gate Closed Gate

Poems Featured in Previous Issues

Simon j. Ortiz - America

In this hemisphere, corn is ancient and young: it is the seed, food, and symbol of a constantly developing and revolutionary people.

 

Donít fret now.

 

Songs are useless

to exculpate sorrow.

Thatís not their intent anyway.

More on page 15 (Issue 4)

Itís near time to leave for the unknown

JumokeVerissimo - Nigeria 

(For a friend living with cancer)

 

Itís time to leave for the unknown

Time when past years skid in my head

Time to shed the burden of despair

From a mind where tears peak gut

 

Ignorance is no virtue for one dying

I choose contentment in knowing nothing

Gathering strength thinking and disregarding

More on page 25 (Issue 4)

To the Widow

Adjei Agyei-Baah - Ghana

 

You are the sleepless duck

Who rests on a single leg

Keeps vigil over a silent compound

And waits upon the ancestral spirits

To come for the last morsel of the day

More on pages 28-29  (Issue 4)

Dear Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Osita Igbo - Nigeria

 

We should all be feminists?  No! It is rusty; and rust cannot be a bluing for the geckoís skin. You claim to stuff rare sutures in fissure of the sun. You are the warmth of moon at night feast, trumpeting crystals of talons. 

More on pages 30-31 (Issue 4)

Merkabah: The Wind Over the Mountains

Sheikha A. - Pakistan

 

after Tafiyar Qaguwa: A Crabís Journey in Search of God by Umar Saleh Gwani (Stunned Collection) 

 

Wastage teaches us scraps are meaningful; 

we wipe plates with pieces of bread before setting  

them in a sink. Running with wolves could mean 

the same as salvaging grace. Our lessons become

More on page 32 (Issue 4)

Closed Gate Closed Gate

 

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