February, 2015

Chopin

POSTED IN classic poetry February 27, 2015

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chopin

I
A dream of interlinking hands, of feet
Tireless to spin the unseen, fairy woof
Of the entangling waltz. Bright eyebeams meet,
Gay laughter echoes from the vaulted roof.
Warm perfumes rise; the soft unflickering glow
Of branching lights sets off the changeful charms
Of glancing gems, rich stuffs, the dazzling snow
Of necks unkerchieft, and bare, clinging arms.
Hark to the music! How beneath the strain
Of reckless revelry, vibrates and sobs
One fundamental chord of constant pain,
The pulse-beat of the poet’s heart that throbs.
So yearns, though all the dancing waves rejoice,
The troubled sea’s disconsolate, deep voice.

II

Who shall proclaim the golden fable false
Of Orpheus’ miracles? This subtle strain
Above our prose-world’s sordid loss and gain
Lightly uplifts us. With the rhythmic waltz,
The lyric prelude, the nocturnal song
Of love and languor, varied visions rise,
That melt and blend to our enchanted eyes.
The Polish poet who sleeps silenced long,
The seraph-souled musician, breathes again
Eternal eloquence, immortal pain.
Revived the exalted face we know so well,
The illuminated eyes, the fragile frame,
Slowly consuming with its inward flame,
We stir not, speak not, lest we break the spell.

III

A voice was needed, sweet and true and fine
As the sad spirit of the evening breeze,
Throbbing with human passion, yet devine
As the wild bird’s untutored melodies.
A voice for him ‘neath twilight heavens dim,
Who mourneth for his dead, while round him fall
The wan and noiseless leaves. A voice for him
Who sees the first green sprout, who hears the call
Of the first robin on the first spring day.
A voice for all whom Fate hath set apart,
Who, still misprized, must perish by the way,
Longing with love, for that they lack the art
Of their own soul’s expression. For all these
Sing the unspoken hope, the vague, sad reveries.

IV

Then Nature shaped a poet’s heart–a lyre
From out whose chords the lightest breeze that blows
Drew trembling music, wakening sweet desire.
How shall she cherish him? Behold! she throws
This precious, fragile treasure in the whirl
Of seething passions; he is scourged and stung,
Must dive in storm-vext seas, if but one pearl
Of art or beauty therefrom may be wrung.
No pure-browed pensive nymph his Muse shall be,
An amazon of thought with sovereign eyes,
Whose kiss was poison, man-brained, worldy-wise,
Inspired that elfin, delicate harmony.
Rich gain for us! But with him is it well?
The poet who must sound earth, heaven, and hell!
 
 
Emma Lazarus

Approaching Spring

POSTED IN contemporary poetry February 27, 2015

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Approaching Spring

 

To the sound of a deep melody
like the circuit of the sea
wise CHILD with summer’s blood in your veins
here, in this cold northern country,
help me to remember what has been loved
and to dream what will be loved.

To the sound of talk and tears
like the softest tones of Chopin’s piano,
quiet GIRL hidden within the lilac bushes
now, in this season of soil and rain,
come forth suffused in purple fragrance
and we will wander over marshes of moon grass.

To the sound of dawns and nightfalls
like the boisterous orchestra of March.
sweet WOMAN whose hands open the sun’s doors
always, during the flights of deer and owls,
guide me into the gold light of June
along a free-flowing stream pressed against familiar shores.

 

 

Daniel Brick

Willed out

POSTED IN Stories February 16, 2015

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Willed out

 
I live vis-à-vis.
I see you every morning
naked
through your wide opened windows.
If you saw me,
you’d smile,
so I hide.
I study you.
I count the women
you wear every night
and I mark those
who gain their right
to open your morning windows.
I know your true face
while you are alone.
I even saw you crying
after you loved
a woman who just left.
I saw all yours masks, because
one day
you forgot the attic windows
opened.
You must climb all
those stairs alone
only to choose
who you want to be?
I think that
only three days
in this last year
you lived without any mask.
Then one same woman
would come to visit you.
Only then
you would close the windows,
all of them.
And draw the curtains,
all of them.
And the others would leave,
all of them.
She would come
backwards
straight to you
but she’d be willed out
by how deep
she’d have loved you
had she not known you
so well…
so bad, actually…
Don’t love!
Wait for me
to come and do
the memory wipe.

 

 

Finland, July 2002

Maria Magdalena Biela

4 Metaphors About The Moon

POSTED IN contemporary poetry February 9, 2015

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

4 Metaphors About The Moon

 
I.
My heart is a well within, where clear waters raise if it rains,
mixed with mud.The moon inside it grows and dwindles continuously.
She breaks for me her bread, I share with her my water.
The more dreams I carry on my back, the more she shines brighter.

II.
Because of too many shadows my road is darker
and I hid in the hollow of an old tree. Tomorrow it will be cut down.
The bloody knife is on the ground, covered with dust.
I feel like a woman who has never had a shadow,
either sunshine or moonlight.

III.
Right before dawn, when dreams knock loudly at my conscience gate,
a gray orchid grows under my eyelids.
A night butterfly asleep on the white sugar bowl.
What if the moon itself was nothing but the imprint of a dry flower
on the iris of a child’s eye?

IV.
If you dare to pass by the corner of a poet’s house in Venice,
a black gate towards the old attic will open.
There the moon turns on a gramophone record.
Always the same tune, over waters and rice fields, beyond dams and oceans,
beyond white birds migrations in any season.

 

 

copyright
Cristina Monica Moldoveanu

https://www.scribd.com/doc/253525559/Poems

Let Us Be Poetry

POSTED IN contemporary poetry February 7, 2015

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Let Us Be Poetry

I think that in this shattered World,
As cruel and cold as it may be,
We’ll find the softness of a bird,
In some great piece of poetry.

A Poem that will read your heart,
Give it the love that makes it start,
Surrounds you with musical scales,
Hoists up, imaginary sails.

I think that thanks to Poetry,
Feelings come forth more naturally,
Words do describe the inner soul,
Poetry’s mother to us All.

 

 

Sandra Feldman

 

Lonely Moon

POSTED IN contemporary poetry February 6, 2015

The Occasional Traveller

POSTED IN contemporary poetry February 3, 2015

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Occasional Traveller

This is a poem of male roads. It starts
with an ordinary road made up of
daily traffic plus the occasional
traveller impulsively joining
the regulars. Unlike them he has no
sense of the time this journey will grab
from his life, he cannot calculate
whether or not it is worth the risk.
The seasoned traveller can always
turn around, go back home, and
salvage part of the day. But this
impulsive one is lost between
the too familiar house he has abandoned
and a goal he cannot name or envision.
In the end he will need to see his journey
as a success. All around him the regulars
are smiling, counting their profits,
congratulating each other, laying plans
and new schemes. Only the occasional
traveller, this man bereft of companionship,
is alone. His mind is a round-about,
with no exits, only entrances. At day’s
end, no woman sweetens his life.

 

 

 

Daniel Brick