Yo no me calloPerdone el ciudadano esperanzadomi recuerdo de acciones miserables,que levantan los hombres del pasado.Yo predico un amor inexorable.Y no me importa perro ni persona:sólo el pueblo es en mí considerable:sólo la Patria a mí me condiciona.Pueblo y Patria manejan mi cuidado:Patria y pueblo destinan mis deberesy si logran matar lo levantadopor el pueblo, es mi Patria la que muere.Es ése mi temor y mi agonía.Por eso en el combate nadie espereque se quede sin voz mi poesía.

I know now that the poem in my head, the one that pushed me to the page, begged me - or dared me to be born is almost never the poem that comes out. I suppose it’s like anything born of/with free will and the will to live: once I’ve given the seed, once the juices flow through any sort of birth canal and make it to the ambient air there will, at that point, be forces that come into play that are no longer entirely mine. To forget that each word is a life unto itself is to strangle it dead before it can even take a step.

How clear, how lovely bright,How beautiful to sight Those beams of morning play;How heaven laughs out with gleeWhere, like a bird set free,Up from the eastern sea Soars the delightful day.To-day I shall be strong,No more shall yield to wrong, Shall squander life no more;Days lost, I know not how,I shall retrieve them now;Now I shall keep the vow I never kept before.Ensanguining the skiesHow heavily it dies Into the west away;Past touch and sight and soundNot further to be found,How hopeless under ground Falls the remorseful day.

Answers I kept my answers small and kept them near;Big questions bruised my mind but still I letSmall answers be a bullwark to my fear.The huge abstractions I kept from the light;Small things I handled and caressed and loved.I let the stars assume the whole of night.But the big answers clamoured to be moved Into my life. Their great audacityShouted to be acknowledged and believed.Even when all small answers build up toProtection of my spirit, still I hearBig answers striving for their overthrow.And all the great conclusions coming nea

A rural Venus, Selah rises from thegold foliage of the Sixhiboux River, sweepspetals of water from her skin. At once,clouds begin to sob for such beauty.Clothing drops like leaves."No one makes poetry,my Mme.Butterfly, my Carmen, in Whylah,”I whisper. She smiles: “We’ll shape it withour souls.”Desire illuminates the dark manuscriptof our skin with beetles and butterflies.After the lightning and rain has ceased,after the lightning and rain of lovemakinghas ceased, Selah will dive again into thesunflower-open river.

اگر به خانه ي من آمدي براي من اي مهربان چراغ بيارو يك دريچه كه از آنبه ازدهام كوچه ي خوشبخت بنگرم

True poetry is the perception of human feelings, the voice of the heart, open or hidden. It is the lyrics, compositions, and melody of the relation between humankind, the universe and God, a shadow pinpointing each of the truths we can discern everywhere (from the earth to the stars), a photograph of the creation’s projection cast in our feelings and thoughts and framed through words, a heartfelt tune of our loves and joys played on different strings, and it is a bouquet of our faith, hope, determination, beauty, love, reunion, and yearnings.

We wear the mask that grins and lies, It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,— This debt we pay to human guile; With torn and bleeding hearts we smile, And mouth with myriad subtleties. Why should the world be over-wise, In counting all our tears and sighs? Nay, let them only see us, while We wear the mask. We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries To thee from tortured souls arise. We sing, but oh the clay is vile Beneath our feet, and long the mile; But let the world dream otherwise, We wear the mask!

Things it helps me to rememberWhen in a bad mood, keep quiet or still.Baggy jumpers don’t suit you.When you’re tired you get doubtful.Difficulties come in spurts.Listen to the echo of your own voice. Avoid be strident.All aeroplanes go through clouds during their journeys. So do people during theirs.Often greater clarity comes out of confusion. You have to be puzzled before you find a solution.PMS often brings on a crisis of confidence.Ordinariness is restful.If someone is explosive in front of you, be silent. If you feel explosive, be silent.

These aren't still shots; the camera is always moving. And the scene is always just slipping out of sight, as if in spite of myself I were always descending a hill, rounding a corner, stepping into the street with a companion who urges me on, while I look back over my shoulder at the sight which recedes, vanishes. The present of my consciousness is itself a mystery which is also always just rounding a bend like a floating branch borne by a flood. Where am I? But I'm not. "I will overturn, overturn, overturn, it: and it shall be no more. . . .

Twas a sheep not a lamb that strayed awayIn the parable Jesus told,A grown-up sheep that strayed awayFrom the ninety and nine in the fold.And why for the sheep should we seekAnd earnestly hope and pray?Because there is danger when sheep go wrong;They lead the lambs astray.Lambs will follow the sheep, you know,Wherever the sheep may stray.When sheep go wrong, it won’t take longTil the lambs are as wrong as they.And so with the sheep we earnestly pleadFor the sake of the lambs today,For when sheep are lost, what a terrible costThe lambs will have to pay!

Poem of the day 1. nóvember 2010:TunglskinOg vatnið starir, starir köldum augumá stirndan himin yfir bleikum tindum.Og inn í dalnum dökkir skuggar trjánna við dapra geilsa tunglsins stíga dans.Og yfir sandinn, langar óraleiðir, lýsir tunglið spor þín, þreytti maður,og bregður köldum, annarlegum glampaá andlit þitt.Ég sé þig hverfa, hverfa inn í skuggann.Og yfir öllu vakir þögnin - þögnin.

Yo te he nombrado reina.Hay más altas que tú, más altas.Hay más puras que tú, más puras.Hay más bellas que tú, hay más bellas.Pero tú eres la reina.Cuando vas por las callesnadie te reconoce.Nadie ve tu corona de cristal, nadie mirala alfombra de oro rojoque pisas donde pasas,la alfombra que no existe.Y cuando asomassuenan todos los ríosen mi cuerpo, sacudenel cielo las campanas,y un himno llena el mundo.Sólo tú y yo,sólo tú y yo, amor mío,lo escuchamos.

Bouraq itu ada dlm kedalaman jiwamu ia ditambatkan sejak awal penciptaan: tinggal Anda memberinya minuman Intuisi Rindu dan Rumput Kebijaksanaan : dia adalah Albaqoroh tapi bukan tuk disembelih tapi diberi tali kekang Mutmainnah, pelana Safayah dan Lawwamah, sepatu Ammarah dan Riadoh, ditelinganya giwang Mulhimah, dilehernya kalung Mardiyah dan di kepalanya mahkota Kamilah, tak usah dicambuk karena sang malaikat kan meminjamkan sayapnya 1 1 atau 2 2 hiìhihhhi.. dan bersama Almaidah anda akan merayakannya di sepanjang tahun2 kesukuran.. (Karel Bhi Saajan)‪

When the spent sun throws up its rays on cloudAnd goes down burning into the gulf below,No voice in nature is heard to cry aloudAt what has happened. Birds, at least must knowIt is the change to darkness in the sky.Murmuring something quiet in her breast,One bird begins to close a faded eye;Or overtaken too far from his nest,Hurrying low above the grove, some waifSwoops just in time to his remembered tree.At most he thinks or twitters softly, 'Safe!Now let the night be dark for all of me.Let the night be too dark for me to seeInto the future. Let what will be, be.