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

صلاح عليوة - مصرScenes

Salah Elewa - Egypt


I went to the pinpointed place and waited for her there.  Her letter which was delivered to me by my youngest sister Madiha in which she requested that we meet under the fig tree at the outskirts of the village had an air of urgency about it. I sat there waiting for a couple of minutes until I saw an elegant figure approaching in the dusk. Her steps were determined though awkward and unsure on the narrow road beside the water canal as she walked towards the place she named in her letter. She wore a long black dress and her head was covered by a black tarha which would come handy if she wanted to cover her face and conceal her identity from the intruding eyes. She kept looking around like a scared sparrow as she drew nearer. I felt sad for her, that sweet fifteen -year old girl who had to go through all these troubles and pains to see me. My heart started to beat a little faster. I had no clue as to what made her arrange for this risky meeting. Normally we would meet outside the village, in the nearby town where we attended secondary school, sometimes we would meet in the train, or we would skip school at times and ramble along the streets of the small town, two strangers happy to be together under the sunshine.


 The air was getting cooler and the breeze was heavy with fragrance of clover and lemon as it came towards us passing over the fields. The nearby road was empty. All the farmers had left the fields and gone home with their cattle. Darkness was settling now among the leaves of the trees and above the water of the stream and was creeping into the streets of the village. The whole atmosphere made that meeting look so strange, so lovely, so dangerous, and so sweet and for some reason I felt that I was meeting her for the last time.


When she reached me she put her hand in mine and a little sigh issued from her chest. A fleeting smile played on her lips and seemed to illuminate the trees and the silent fields around us for a moment.  We had not met in the village before and this made me see her in a different light. Being surrounded with dangers, with the prospect of being seen together, these little moments were so precious, and so dear like the moments in which soldiers waive good by to their families or their young wives as they head into the battlefields to get killed or die. I loved her at that moment more than any time before. It seemed as if we were two different persons now, far different from the two young lovers who walked hand in hand in the nearby town, happy and secure away from the gazing eyes of the people in the village. And now the darkness and the sense of fear and danger generated new feelings in my heart towards her. I felt happy to see her beside me, that girl who had undergone so much troubles and pains to meet me. I remembered a poem by Walt Waltman  I had read couple of days before in which he said that the man to be envied is not the president in his presidency or the rich man immersed in comfort and luxuries , but the man who is truly loved.



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