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Greece has the lead this year.    Athens is named
"World Book capital 2018"
by Unesco.
Cheers!

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αρχείο λήψης

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Through cherishing our cultural heritage, we can discover our diversity and start an inter-cultural conversation.

#SavePoetry
#SaveCulturalHeritage

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Countdown to Poetry celebration.

Celebrate, preserve, pass on to future generations.

http://www.un.org/en/events/poetryday/index.shtml

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 In October 1999, at the UNESCO General Conference in Paris, March 21 was proclaimed World Poetry Day. 

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 In October 1999, at the UNESCO General Conference in Paris, March 21 was proclaimed World Poetry Day. 

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The rationale of the decision said: "World Poetry Day will enhance the image of poetry in the media so that poetry is no longer a useless art, but an art that helps society to find and strengthen its identity. The very popular poetic readings can contribute to a return to the oral and socialization of the live spectacle, and celebrations can be the occasion for strengthening the links of poetry with other arts and philosophy, in order to redefine the phrase of Delacroix:
"No, there is no art without poetry"

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by poets...

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Trace

I wish:
that after the dreams
I leave no trace on your body.

That you take with you only
the sadness and the white silk
and the soft smell...

of the roads covered with dry leaves
shaken from the poplar trees.

greetings from Vesna Kostic, Serbia

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By kounoupidiana Secondary school Chania/Greece ...
People go back to his poetry for “his tenderness and boundless humanism”.
We go back to him for launching our  dedication to Poetry with his words. An ode to poetry itself

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Why not post your own poem ? :)

“Ο ποιητής μπορεί ν' αντέξει τα πάντα, εκτός από ένα ορθογραφικό λάθος”
Όσκαρ Ουάιλντ

“The poet can afford everything apart from a misspelling”

Oscar Wilde

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Σαπφώ  -  Sappho                                           Ancient Greek female poetry

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Σαπφώ  -  Sappho                                           Ancient Greek female poetry

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The poet Sappho lived in the sixth century B.C. on the island of Lesbos, which is situated in the Northeastern Aegean.It has been suggested that she was alive from about 610 B.C to 570 B.C.. Lesbos was the center of a flourishing poets.Sappho the poet was an innovator. At the time poetry was principally used in ceremonial contexts, and to extoll the deeds of brave soldiers. Sappho had the audacity to use the first person in poetry and to discuss deep human emotions, particularly the erotic, in ways that had never been approached by anyone before her. As for the military angle, in one of the longer fragments  she says: "Some say that the fairest thing upon the dark earth is a host of horsemen, and some say a host of foot soldiers, and others again a fleet of ships, but for me it is my beloved."

In the ancient world she was considered to be on an equal footing with Homer, acclaimed as the 'tenth muse'. Her poetry was collected three hundred years after her death at Alexandria in nine books. Some of her poems were known to be hundreds of lines long.

Today, only a few scraps of her poetry survive.Most of the fragments are second- or third-hand quotes from other texts..

CLICK HERE

http://archive.ert.gr/7125/

"Fragment"
Αστερεσ μέν ἀμφι κάλαν σελάνναν
ἆιψ ἀπυκρύπτοισι φάεννον εἶδοσ,
ὄπποτα πλήθοισα μάλιστα λάμπησ
ἀργυρια γᾶν.
αμφὶ δ᾽ ὔδωρ
ψῖχρον ὤνεμοσ κελάδει δἰ ὔσδων
μαλίνων, αἰθυσσομένων δὲ φύλλων
κῶμα κατάρρει

The stars about the full moon lose their bright beauty when she, almost full, illumines all earth with silver.

The gleaming stars all about the shining moon
Hide their bright faces, when full-orbed and splendid
In the sky she floats, flooding the shadowed earth
with clear silver light.
By the cool water the breeze murmurs, rustling
Through apple branches, while from quivering leaves
Streams down deep slumber.

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In 2009 (still holds the title) she became the first woman appointed poet laureate of Great Britain! A tribute to female poetry after 400 years of male domination in British poetry. What a victory!

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Carol Ann Duffy, in full Dame Carol Ann Duffy, (born December 23, 1955, Glasgow, Scotland), British poet whose well-known and well-liked poetry engaged such topics as gender and oppression, expressing them in familiar, conversational language that made her work accessible to a variety of readers. In 2009-19 she served as the first woman poet laureate of Great Britain.

Duffy lived in Glasgow, Scotland, until age six, when she and her family moved to Stafford, England. Her father, a fitter for an electric company, ran an unsuccessful bid for Parliament in 1983. Duffy grew up attending convent schools and began publishing her poetry in magazines at age 14. She later attended Liverpool University. After graduating with a degree in philosophy in 1977, Duffy set to work publishing several books and traveling to read and teach her poetry. She also worked as a poetry critic for The Guardian from 1988 to 1989 and as an editor for the poetry magazine Ambit. In 1996 she began lecturing in poetry at Manchester Metropolitan University, where she later became creative director of the Writing School.

Duffy's poetry collections included Standing Female Nude (1985), The Other Country (1990), The World's Wife (1999), Rapture (2005), and Sincerity (2018). During this time she also authored such plays as Take My Husband (1982) and Little Women, Big Boys (1986). At the beginning of the 21st century, much of her work was written for children, including the picture books Underwater Farmyard (2002), The Tear Thief (2007), The Princess's Blankets (2009), and Dorothy Wordsworth's Christmas Birthday (2014), as well as the poetry collection The Hat (2007). She continued to produce verse for adults as well, notably issuing the collections Love Poems (2010), The Bees (2011), and Sincerity (2018), and her stage credits included retellings of the story of Casanova (2007) and of the morality play Everyman (2015).

In 1999 British media claimed that Duffy had been considered for the position of poet laureate but that Prime Minister Tony Blair feared her homosexuality would not be well received by "middle England"; the poet and author Andrew Motion was chosen instead. Upon accepting the position at the end of Motion's term, in 2009, Duffy made it clear in interviews that she had agreed to become poet laureate only because, since its inception in the 17th century, no woman had previously held the post. She also expressed impatience with claims that her sexuality had kept her from the post; her 10-year term ended in 2019. Her work received such notable accolades as the Scottish Arts Council Award, the Whitbread (later Costa) Book Award for poetry, and the T.S. Eliot Prize. She was named an Officer of the Order of the British Empire (OBE) in 1995, advanced to Commander of the Order of the British Empire (CBE) in 2002, and was named a Dame Commander of the British Empire (DBE) in 2015.

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Carol Ann Duffy | Biography, Books, Poetry, & Facts

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Carol Ann Duffy, British poet whose well-known and well-liked poetry engaged such topics as gender and oppression, expressing them in familiar, conversational language that made her work accessible to a variety of readers. In 2009-19 she served as the first woman poet laureate of Great Britain.

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by Nikiforos Vrettakos  1912-1991 Greek

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Emily Dickinson                  1830-1886  American

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Emily Dickinson                  1830-1886  American

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"The soul selects her own society

The Soul selects her own Society —
Then — shuts the Door —
To her divine Majority —
Present no more —

Unmoved — she notes the Chariots — pausing —
At her low Gate —
Unmoved — an Emperor be kneeling
Upon her Mat —

I’ve known her — from an ample nation —
Choose One —
Then — close the Valves of her attention —
Like Stone —

c. 1862

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We raise our arms

The street climbs into the sky

We lower our eyes

The roofs go down into the earth

From every pain

We do not mention

Grows a chestnut tree

That stays mysterious behind us

From every hope

We cherish

Sprouts a star

That moves unreachable before us

Can you hear a bullet

Flying about our heads

Can you hear a bullet

Waiting to ambush our kiss

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by Carol Ann Duffy  1955 - British

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The great poe portuguese, Luís de Camões

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The great poe portuguese, Luís de Camões

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Love is fire that burns without seeing itself

Love is fire that burns without seeing itself;
It is a wound that hurts and does not feel;
It is discontented contentment;
It is pain that fights without hurting;

It is a not wanting more than good to want;
It is solitary to walk among us;
It is never content with contentment;
It is caring that one gains in losing oneself;

It is wanting to be bound by will;
It is to serve the conqueror, the conqueror;
Have someone kill us, loyalty.

But how can cause your favor
In human hearts friendship,
If so contrary to itself is the same love?
          Luís de Camões

FrancêsInglêsPortuguês---------------AfricânerAlbanêsAlemãoAmáricoÁrabeArmênioAzerbaijanoBascoBengaliBielorrussoBirmanêsBósnioBúlgaroCanarêsCatalãoCazaqueCebuanoChinês (Simplificado)Chinês (Tradicional)CingalêsCoreanoCórsicoCroataCurdoDinamarquêsEslovacoEslovenoEspanholEsperantoEstonianoFilipinoFinlandêsFrancêsFrísio ocidentalGaélico escocêsGalegoGalêsGeorgianoGregoGuzerateHaitianoHauçáHavaianoHebraicoHíndiHmongHolandêsHúngaroIboIídicheIndonésioInglêsIorubáIrlandêsIslandêsItalianoJaponêsJavanêsKhmerLaosianoLatimLetãoLituanoLuxemburguêsMacedônioMalaialaMalaioMalgaxeMaltêsMaoriMarataMongolNepaliNianjaNorueguêsPanjabiPashtoPersaPolonêsPortuguêsQuirguizRomenoRussoSamoanoSérvioShonaSindiSomaliSoto do sulSuaíliSuecoSundanêsTailandêsTajiqueTâmilTchecoTeluguTurcoUcranianoUrduUsbequeVietnamitaXosaZuluInglês

Abrir no Google Tradutor

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Vladislav Petković Dis, Serbia                                She May Be Sleeping…I forgot this morning a certain song sound, The song I was listening to the entire night: I tried today to no avail to hear its chant, As if the song was all happiness I found. I forgot this morning a certain song sound. In my dream I wasn’t aware of waking up might, And that earth needs the sun, morning, dawn; That during the day stars lose a white gown; And the pale moon moves to a dead night. In my dream I wasn’t aware of waking up might. Now I can barely know that I had a dream, And in it someone’s eyes, someone’s sky, A face, don’t know whose, maybe of a fry, An old song, old stars, an old day gleam, Now I can barely know that I had a dream. I recall nothing now, not even the eyes’ beam: As if the entire dream was made of spume, Or that those eyes were my detached pneum. The song or anything from last night’s dream, I recall nothing now, not even the eyes’ beam. But I sense as to sense is the only thing I still know. I sense about those eyes that they are the ones, That oddly in my life guide me and chase me: They come to my dream to see what I do alone, But I sense as to sense is the only thing I still know. The eyes come to see me and I see and feel Those eyes, love and the happiness way; Her eyes, her face, her blossoming May. In dream I see, but don’t know why not for real The eyes come to see me and I see and feel. Her head with a hair crown and a flower in the hair, And her gaze that watches me like from flowers, That watches me, and tells me of her fondness, And offers me a tender rest and the world of care, Her head with a hair crown and a flower in the hair. I have no my beloved now and don’t know her voice; Don’t know the place where she rests or resides; And don’t know why her and the dream reality hides; She may be sleeping, and a grave sadly cares for her corpse. I have no my beloved now and don’t know her voice. She may be sleeping with eyes beyond all evil realm, Beyond the things, illusions, beyond the reality, And with her there sleeps, unseen, her beauty; She may be living and will come after this dream, She may be sleeping with eyes beyond all evil realm.

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Vladislav Petković Dis, Serbia                                She May Be Sleeping…I forgot this morning a certain song sound, The song I was listening to the entire night: I tried today to no avail to hear its chant, As if the song was all happiness I found. I forgot this morning a certain song sound. In my dream I wasn’t aware of waking up might, And that earth needs the sun, morning, dawn; That during the day stars lose a white gown; And the pale moon moves to a dead night. In my dream I wasn’t aware of waking up might. Now I can barely know that I had a dream, And in it someone’s eyes, someone’s sky, A face, don’t know whose, maybe of a fry, An old song, old stars, an old day gleam, Now I can barely know that I had a dream. I recall nothing now, not even the eyes’ beam: As if the entire dream was made of spume, Or that those eyes were my detached pneum. The song or anything from last night’s dream, I recall nothing now, not even the eyes’ beam. But I sense as to sense is the only thing I still know. I sense about those eyes that they are the ones, That oddly in my life guide me and chase me: They come to my dream to see what I do alone, But I sense as to sense is the only thing I still know. The eyes come to see me and I see and feel Those eyes, love and the happiness way; Her eyes, her face, her blossoming May. In dream I see, but don’t know why not for real The eyes come to see me and I see and feel. Her head with a hair crown and a flower in the hair, And her gaze that watches me like from flowers, That watches me, and tells me of her fondness, And offers me a tender rest and the world of care, Her head with a hair crown and a flower in the hair. I have no my beloved now and don’t know her voice; Don’t know the place where she rests or resides; And don’t know why her and the dream reality hides; She may be sleeping, and a grave sadly cares for her corpse. I have no my beloved now and don’t know her voice. She may be sleeping with eyes beyond all evil realm, Beyond the things, illusions, beyond the reality, And with her there sleeps, unseen, her beauty; She may be living and will come after this dream, She may be sleeping with eyes beyond all evil realm.

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Mahmoud Darwish, Palestine

I come from there and I have memories

Born as mortals are, I have a mother
And a house with many windows,
I have brothers, friends,
And a prison cell with a cold window.
Mine is the wave, snatched by sea-gulls,

I have my own view,
And an extra blade of grass.
Mine is the moon at the far edge of the words,
And the bounty of birds,
And the immortal olive tree.
I walked this land before the swords
Turned its living body into a laden table.

I come from there. I render the sky unto her mother
When the sky weeps for her mother.
And I weep to make myself known
To a returning cloud.

I learnt all the words worthy of the court of blood
So that I could break the rule.
I learnt all the words and broke them up
To make a single word: Homeland.....

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Constantine P Cavafy -Greek

Honoured be all devoting their life

to guard every Thermopylae

Never forsaking duty;

just and balanced in all their actions,

showing pity and compassion too;

bravely generous whenever they are rich, and when

they are poor, equally bravely generous to a lesser extent,

still helping in every way they can;

always speaking the truth,

yet without resentment towards the falsifiers.

Still more honours are due to them

whenever they foresee (and many do foresee)

that Ephialtes will eventually show up

that the Medes will ultimately break through

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Once you set out for Ithaka

hope your road to be long,

full of adventures, full of knowledge.

Don't be afraid of the Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,

the angry Poseidon

you'll never find them on your way

if you keep your thoughts high,

if rare excitement touches your spirit and your body.

You won't meet the Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,

the wild Poseidon

unless you bring them along inside your soul,

unless your soul puts them in front of you.

Hope your road to be long

may there be many summer mornings

when you'll enter with pleasure, with joy,

the harbours you've seen for the first time

Stop in Phoenician trading stations

and get the good wares

pearls and corals, ambers and ebony,

and sensual herbs of every kind

as many sensual herbs as you can

Go to many Egyptian cities

to study and learn from the educated ones

keep Ithaka always in your mind

your arrival there is your destiny

But don't rush the journey at all

it better lasts for many years,

and then when you're old to stay on the island,

wealthy with all you've gained on the way

without expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the beautiful journey.

without her you wouldn't have set out

there's nothing else to give you anymore

And if you find her poor, Ithaka hasn't fooled you.

now that you became wise with so much experience

you should have already understood what Ithakas mean

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T. S. Eliot "Burnt Norton", from Four Quartets

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T. S. Eliot "Burnt Norton", from Four Quartets

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Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.

Thomas Stearns Eliot, (26 September 1888 – 4 January 1965) was a British essayist, publisher, playwright, literary and social critic, and "one of the twentieth century's major poets".

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The most popular artist, poet, national bard of Ukraine!

The Testament

Dig my grave and raise my barrow
By the Dnieper-side
In Ukraina, my own land,
A fair land and wide.
I will lie and watch the cornfields,
Listen through the years
To the river voices roaring,
Roaring in my ears.

When I hear the call
Of the racing flood,
Loud with hated blood,
I will leave them all,
Fields and hills; and force my way
Right up to the Throne
Where God sits alone;
Clasp His feet and pray…
But till that day
What is God to me?

Bury me, be done with me,
Rise and break your chain,
Water your new liberty
With blood for rain.
Then, in the mighty family
Of all men that are free,
May be sometimes, very softly
You will speak of me?

Taras Shevchenko
Translated by E. L. Voynich
London, 1911

Заповіт

Як умру, то поховайте
Мене на могилі
Серед степу широкого
На Вкраїні милій,
Щоб лани широкополі,
І Дніпро, і кручі
Було видно, було чути,
Як реве ревучий.

Як понесе з України
У синєє море
Кров ворожу… отойді я
І лани і гори —
Все покину, і полину
До самого Бога
Молитися… а до того
Я не знаю Бога.

Поховайте та вставайте,
Кайдани порвіте
І вражою злою кров’ю
Волю окропіте.
І мене в сем’ї великій,
В сем’ї вольній, новій,
Не забудьте пом’янути
Незлим тихим словом.

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Love:
noun, substantive,
extremely substantive,
singular in number;
gender not feminine, not masculine,
gender defenseless.
Plural the number
of defenseless loves.
Fear:
substantive,
singular to start with
plural afterward:
fears.
Fears of
everything from now on.
Memory:
noun, proper name for sorrows,
singular in number,
singular only,
and indeclinable.
Memory, memory, memory.
Night:
substantive,
gender feminine
number singular.
Plural in number
the nights.
The nights from now on

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Miroslav "Mika" Antić (Serbian Cyrillic: Мирослав "Мика" Антић; 14 March 1932 – 24 June 1986) was a Serbian poet, film director, journalist and painter. He was a major figure of the Yugoslav Black Wave. He had six children.

He wrote poems, articles, dramas, movie and TV scripts and documentaries. He acted in several movies and was a painter.

In addition to poems about Romani people with whom he identified (despite being of Serbian ancestry), because of his bohemian lifestyle, and the long poem on Vojvodina published as a separate book, he is especially well known for much recited at poetry gatherings and competitions poems about teenagers Plavi čuperak (A Blond Lock of Hair).

A Poem For The Two Of Us

I know,
it must be so:
the two of us have never met,
although we keep looking for each other
for her happiness
as well as mine.
The drunk rain whips and strikes,
wind pulls willows’ hair out.

Where am I going?
Which town should I stop by?

The day is spilled over the opaque fields.

I’m dragging two empty eyes around
staring into faces of passers-by.
Who should I ask, hungry and wet,
why have we never met?

Or, did it happen already?
Missed a step?
Maybe she came right next to me.
But I,
stopped by a pub, bitter,
and she
not knowing – passed me by.

I don’t know.
We’ve roamed the world
passionate, crazy
equally,
and we’ve missed each other by a step.

Yes, it must’ve been like that….

If Pillows Could Talk

If pillows could talk
about what someone dreams and hides,
if they would really talk
about what someone secretly does
about a girl,
for example,
that mimics grownups
and gossips… gossips,
all smudged with makeup,
or about a boy
who shaves with a dull razor blade
– supposedly: the man has beard troubles,
And if they’d talk about everything else
about you,
and about me,
there would be something to cry and laugh about
and to make us blush.

Luckily: pillows don’t say a word.
They keep a million secrets in the soft whiteness of feathers.
They are like boats,
big white boats,
that sail into the impossibility,
into dreams
into the immensity.
They take you away at night.
bring you back at dawn.
And it goes without saying: everything is fine…

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Liberté
On my school notebooks
On my desk and on the trees
On the sands of snow
I write your name

On the pages I have read
On all the white pages
Stone, blood, paper or ash
I write your name

On the images of gold
On the weapons of the warriors
On the crown of the king
I write your name

On the jungle and the desert
On the nest and on the brier
On the echo of my childhood
I write your name

On all my scarves of blue
On the moist sunlit swamps
On the living lake of moonlight
I write your name

On the fields, on the horizon
On the birds’ wings
And on the mill of shadows
I write your name

On each whiff of daybreak
On the sea, on the boats
On the demented mountaintop
I write your name

On the froth of the cloud
On the sweat of the storm
On the dense rain and the flat
I write your name

On the flickering figures
On the bells of colors
On the natural truth
I write your name

On the high paths
On the deployed routes
On the crowd-thronged square
I write your name

On the lamp which is lit
On the lamp which isn’t
On my reunited thoughts
I write your name

On a fruit cut in two
Of my mirror and my chamber
On my bed, an empty shell
I write your name

On my dog, greathearted and greedy
On his pricked-up ears
On his blundering paws
I write your name

On the latch of my door
On those familiar objects
On the torrents of a good fire
I write your name

On the harmony of the flesh
On the faces of my friends
On each outstretched hand
I write your name

On the window of surprises
On a pair of expectant lips
In a state far deeper than silence
I write your name

On my crumbled hiding-places
On my sunken lighthouses
On my walls and my ennui
I write your name

On abstraction without desire
On naked solitude
On the marches of death
I write your name

And for the want of a word
I renew my life
For I was born to know you
To name you

Liberty.

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By Mihai Eminescu
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

And if my window feels the branch
Of a stuttering poplar tree,
It is to make me dream once more
Of clasping you to me.

And if the stars glow on the lake
And light its darkling shoal,
It is to flood my mind with peace
And quell my roiling soul.

And if the clouds draw themselves back
To let the moon blaze through,
It is to make my heart recall
How hard I ache for you.

Mihai Eminescu was a Romantic poet, novelist and journalist, often regarded as the most famous and influential Romanian poet.

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THREE THINGS CONSPIRE

Three things conspire together in mine eyes
To bring the remembrance of Thee ever before me,
And I possess them as faithful witnesses:
Thy heavens, for whose sake I recall Thy name,
The earth I live on, that rouseth my thought
With its expanse which recalleth the expander of my pedestal,
And the musing of my heart when I look within the depths of myself.
Bless the Lord, O my soul, for ever and aye!

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21st March International Day for Poetry.The poem "Wings". Author: Ukrainian poetess Lina Kostenko. Poem reads Bogdan Stupka.
The wings

Who has the wings
Doesn't need the ground

When land is missed
He'll fly around

Without fields
He loves the will

Without wife
still loves the life.

We live on earth
We can not fly

But from the birth
We touch the sky

The humans fly
When they just smile

Man's wings are not
From feather -

the soul and thought
Inside the leather

They take us high
When we're inspired

When man in love
He flies like dove

With these emotions
We cross the oceans

The dreams
Rise wings

Good friend
indeed
Takes off the land
from feet

Who said we never fly?
If feelings take so high!

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Богдан Ступка, вірш Ліни Костенко "Крила"

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Only because you loved me

I only sing because you loved me
in the past years.
And in the sun, in summer ’s prediction
and in rain, and in snow,
I only sing because you loved me.

Only because you kept your hands on me
one night and you kissed me on my lips,
only for that, am I as fine as an open  lily
And I have a shiver in my soul,
only because you  kept your hands on me.

Only because your eyes looked at me
with the soul glancing,
proudly I adorned the ultimate
crown of my being,
Only because your eyes looked at me

Only because you noticed me as I passed
And by your look I saw passing
my svelte shadow as a dream
playing, hurting
Only because you noticed me as I passed

Because you hesitantly called me
And you stretched to my hand
And you had in your eyes the blur
A complete love
Because you hesitantly called me

Only because you liked it,
That’s why my passing kept being nice.
As if you were following me wherever
As if you came close to me somewhere
Only because you liked it.

Only because you  loved me I was born,
so my life was given.
In graceless unfulfilled life
so my life was fulfilled.
Only because you loved me I was born.

Only for your special love
dawn gave roses in my hands.
To illuminate for a moment your way
night filled my eyes with stars
Only for your special love.

Only because you loved me wonderfully
I lived to pullulate
your dreams, beautiful king
And so sweet I’m dying
Only because you loved me wonderfully

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Strophe

Moment sent by a hand
that I had so much loved
you reached me almost at dusk
like a black dove

The road shone before me
soft breath of sleep
at the end of a secret feast…
Moment grain of sand

that you alone kept
the tragic clepsydra whole
silent as though it had seen Hydra
in the heavenly orchard

Denial

On the secluded seashore
white like a dove
we thirsted at noon
but the water brackish

On the golden sand
we wrote her name
when the sea breeze blew
the writing vanished

With what heart with what spirit
what desire and what passion
we led our life what a mistake
so we changed our life

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O my language,
help me to adapt and embrace the universe. Inside me
there’s a balcony no one passes under for a greeting.
And outside me a world that doesn’t return the greeting.
My language, will I become what you’ll become, or are you
what becomes of me?
[…] For who, if I utter what isn’t poetry,
will understand me? Who will speak to me of a hidden
longing for a lost time if I utter what isn’t poetry?
And who will know the stranger’s land? …

— Mahmoud Darwish, from “Tuesday And The Weather Is Clear,” If I Were Another (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2011)

Mahmoud Darwish ( 13 March 1941 – 9 August 2008 ) was a Palestinian poet and author who was regarded as the Palestinian national poet. He won numerous awards for his works.

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Monogram

Θά πενθώ πάντα -- μ'ακούς; -- γιά σένα,

μόνος,στόν Παράδεισο

Θά γυρίσει αλλού τίς χαρακιές

Τής παλάμης,η Μοίρα,σάν κλειδούχος

Μιά στιγμή θά συγκατατεθεί ο Καιρός

Πώς αλλιώς,αφού αγαπιούνται οι άνθρωποι

Θά παραστήσει ο ουρανός τα σωθικά μας

Καί θά χτυπήσει τόν κόσμο η αθωότητα

Μέ τό δριμύ του μαύρου του θανάτου.

ΙΙ.

Πενθώ τόν ήλιο καί πενθώ τά χρόνια που έρχονται

Χωρίς εμάς καί τραγουδώ τ'άλλα πού πέρασαν

Εάν είναι αλήθεια

Μιλημένα τά σώματα καί οί βάρκες πού έκρουζαν γλυκά

Οί κιθάρες πού αναβόσβησαν κάτω από τα νερά

Τά "πίστεψέ με" και τα "μή"

Μιά στόν αέρα μιά στή μουσική

Τα δυό μικρά ζώα,τά χέρια μας

Πού γύρευαν ν'ανέβουνε κρυφά τό ένα στό άλλο

Η γλάστρα μέ τό δροσαχί στίς ανοιχτές αυλόπορτες

Καί τά κομμάτια οί θάλασσες πού ερχόντουσαν μαζί

Πάνω απ'τίς ξερολιθιές,πίσω άπ'τούς φράχτες

Τήν ανεμώνα πού κάθισε στό χέρι σού

Κι έτρεμες τρείς φορές τό μώβ τρείς μέρες πάνω από

τούς καταρράχτες

Εάν αυτά είναι αλήθεια τραγουδώ

Τό ξύλινο δοκάρι καί τό τετράγωνο φαντό

Στόν τοίχο μέ τή Γοργόνα μέ τά ξέπλεκα μαλλιά

Τή γάτα πού μάς κοίταξε μέσα στά σκοτεινά

Παιδί μέ τό λιβάνι καί μέ τόν κόκκινο σταυρό

Τήν ώρα πού βραδιάζει στών βράχων τό απλησίαστο

Πενθώ τό ρούχο πού άγγιξα καί μού ήρθε ο κόσμος

Έτσι μιλώ γιά σένα καί γιά μένα

I will always mourn -- do you hear me? -- for you,

alone,in heaven

The Fate will turn away the furrows of

The palm,like the keeper of the keys

Sometime the Time will consent

How else,since people are loved

The sky will represent our entrails

And the innocence will hit the world

With the scythe of the black death

II.

I mourn the sun and I mourn the years that are coming

Without us and I sing the others that passed by

If they're true

Spoken the bodies and the boats that were knocking sweetly

The guitars that blinked under the waters

The "believe me" and the "don't"

Once in the air once in the music

The two small animals,our hands

That seek to get up secretly to each other

The flowerpot with the dew in the open yard gates

And the pieces of the seas that were coming together

Over the stones,behind the fences

The windflower that sat in your hand

And you were shaking three times the purple three times over the falls

If these are true I sing

The wooden girder and the square illusion

In the wall with the Mermaid with the disevelled hair

The cat that looked at us in the dark

Child with the incense and with the red cross

The time that it's getting dark in the approachable of the rocks

I mourn the cloth that I touched and the world came to mt

So I talk about you and me

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Βρέθηκε στο Google από τον τομέα nobelprize.org

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In the middle of the summer
The summertime naked naked
Pouring out the oil and the salt
The body of the rock and the heart of the heart
Big amount of wicker hair
A royal one above the sultry adolescent
It was filled with rust and pine needles
Shallow depth of the day!

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One Single Swallow
One single swallow, and the cost of Spring is dear
For the sun to return, much work is needed
It wants thousands dying at the wheels
it wants the living, too, to give their blood.

My God, master builder, you built me inside the mountains
My God, master builder, you enclosed me in the sea!

The body of May was taken away by Magi
they have buried it inside a tomb of the open sea
they have locked it away in a deep well
the darkness and the whole abyss grew fragrant.

My God, master builder, even inside the lilac bloom Thou art there
My God, master builder, you released the scent of Resurrection

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Iliad is one of the most well known Greek poems.
Actually it is so well known that it gets to be taught at students who attend the 2nd class in Greek High schools.
Illiad was written by Omiros, a legendary poem writer who lived during the 8th century.
Although Iliad takes place only at the last year of the war, the poem describes the whole 10 year-Trojan war.

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Amor é fogo que arde sem se ver;

É ferida que dói e não se sente;

É um contentamento descontente;

É dor que desatina sem doer;

É um não querer mais que bem querer;

É solitário andar por entre a gente;

É nunca contentar-se de contente;

É cuidar que se ganha em se perder;

É querer estar preso por vontade;

É servir a quem vence, o vencedor;

É ter com quem nos mata lealdade.

Mas como causar pode seu favor

Nos corações humanos amizade,

Se tão contrário a si é o mesmo Amor?

Luís de Camões

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Seven advices of MEVLANA

In generosity and helping others,

be like a river…
In compassion and grace,

be like sun…
In concealing others’ faults,

be like night…
In anger and fury,

be like dead…
In modesty and humility,

be like earth…
In tolerance,

be like a sea…

Either exist as you are,

or be as you look.

M.J. Rumi

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And I was in the darkness. And I was the darkness.

And a ray saw me.

Coolness her hilarious face

and I was the dry daffodil.

How did it shake me the awakening of a youth,

how did they laugh my bitter lips!

As if her eyes told me that

I’m not anymore the castaway and the lonely one,

and I bended from the tenderness,

I that the pain had turned me into rock.

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by E. Dickinson.

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On Emily Dickinson's "To Make a Prairie"

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Pecha Kucha (using the term loosely) presentation on Emily Dickinson's "To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee."

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by E. Dickinson.

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To make a prairie (1755)
Emily Dickinson

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
One clover, and a bee,
And revery.
The revery alone will do,
If bees are few.
Comment:
Why make a prairie? In any case, to put it in gamer terms, 1 prairie = 1 clover + 1 bee. No, not quite right; our speaker hesitates and corrects herself. It's really 1 clover + 1 bee + revery = 1 prairie. Then she changes her mind again: finally, "the revery alone will do."

"If bees are few," then what of the fact we started with one bee to begin with? It is tempting to read out the clover and the bee entirely from the poem. Only the reverie matters. The trouble with this logic is that we throw out the physical for the mental. Even the prairie disappears on this reading.

The question that matters is why any of this is being said. We can imagine a speaker looking at a vast expanse of prairie. Wild grass and sky and the world - the entire world - is alive. We humans seem utterly unnecessary. Creation seems so powerful in what is least. Just one clover and one bee could start the process whereby earth becomes field upon field and blossoms.

It's amazing, but why exactly? The vastness of the prairie isn't being looked at. It's impossible to take in completely. The one observing is imagining as she is seeing. This doesn't mean that there is no hard distinction between observation and imagination. It does mean that wonder is unique to the fusion, and note the result. Not a flowering, not a culmination, just a beginning. The imagination may be a cycle unto itself, once started.

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Emily Dickinson, "To make a prairie" (1755)

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To make a prairie (1755) Emily Dickinson To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, One clover, and a bee, And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few. Comment: Why make a prairie? ...

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Georgia.                        Galaktion Tabidze  simply referred to as Galaktioni (November 17, 1892 – March 17, 1959), was a leading Georgian poet of the twentieth century whose writings profoundly influenced all subsequent generations of Georgian poets. He survived Joseph Stalin's Great Purge of the 1930s, which claimed lives of many of his fellow writers, friends and relatives, but came under heavy pressure from the Soviet authorities. Those years plunged him into depression and alcoholism. He was placed in a psychiatric hospital in Tbilisi, where he committed suicide.Galaktion Tabidze was born in the village Chqvishi near Vani, western Georgia (then part of Imperial Russia). His father, local teacher Vasil Tabidze, died two months before Galaktion was born. From 1900 to 1910, he studied at the seminaries of Kutaisi and Tbilisi, and later worked as a teacher. Although his very first book, influenced by Symbolism, garnered acclaim in 1914, he took longer than the other Georgian symbolists from the Blue Horns group to attract recognition. Due to his preference for solitude, he gained a moniker of "Chevalier of the Order of Loneliness" from his cousin Titsian Tabidze.His next poetic collection Crâne aux fleurs artistiques (1919) made him the leader of Georgian poetry for several decades to come. Most of his writings were impregnated with themes of isolation, lovelessness, and nightmarish presentiments, as seen in his masterpieces "Without Love" (1913), "I and the Night" (1913), "Azure Horses" (1915), and "The Wind Blows" (1924).During the Stalinist repressions of 1937, Tabidze's wife Olga Okudzhava, from the family of Old Bolsheviks, was arrested and exiled to Siberia where she died in 1944. Galaktion’s cousin and fellow poet, Titsian Tabidze, like many of the poet’s associates, was also arrested and eventually executed. Tabidze himself was interrogated and heavily beaten by Lavrentiy Beria. This plunged Galaktion into depression and alcoholism. His long silence and solitude saved him from the purges however; he continued to receive titles and awards, and published new poems, but the poet’s life was completely distorted.Severely ill and depressed, he was eventually placed in the Tbilisi psychiatric hospital where he ended his life, through jumping to his death from the hospital window, on Chavchavadze Avenue in Central Tbilisi, in 1959. He was interred at the Mtatsminda Pantheon, his funerals being attended by tens of thousands. In 2000 the Church of Georgia officially absolved Galaktion Tabidze from the sin of suicide.Tabidze authored thousands of poems that established him as one of the greatest Georgian poets with an immense impact on modern Georgian literature. His archive of about 100,000 items in the Literary Museum in Tbilisi still awaits full investigation. He has been translated into Russian, French, English, and German.

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Georgia.                        Galaktion Tabidze  simply referred to as Galaktioni (November 17, 1892 – March 17, 1959), was a leading Georgian poet of the twentieth century whose writings profoundly influenced all subsequent generations of Georgian poets. He survived Joseph Stalin's Great Purge of the 1930s, which claimed lives of many of his fellow writers, friends and relatives, but came under heavy pressure from the Soviet authorities. Those years plunged him into depression and alcoholism. He was placed in a psychiatric hospital in Tbilisi, where he committed suicide.Galaktion Tabidze was born in the village Chqvishi near Vani, western Georgia (then part of Imperial Russia). His father, local teacher Vasil Tabidze, died two months before Galaktion was born. From 1900 to 1910, he studied at the seminaries of Kutaisi and Tbilisi, and later worked as a teacher. Although his very first book, influenced by Symbolism, garnered acclaim in 1914, he took longer than the other Georgian symbolists from the Blue Horns group to attract recognition. Due to his preference for solitude, he gained a moniker of "Chevalier of the Order of Loneliness" from his cousin Titsian Tabidze.His next poetic collection Crâne aux fleurs artistiques (1919) made him the leader of Georgian poetry for several decades to come. Most of his writings were impregnated with themes of isolation, lovelessness, and nightmarish presentiments, as seen in his masterpieces "Without Love" (1913), "I and the Night" (1913), "Azure Horses" (1915), and "The Wind Blows" (1924).During the Stalinist repressions of 1937, Tabidze's wife Olga Okudzhava, from the family of Old Bolsheviks, was arrested and exiled to Siberia where she died in 1944. Galaktion’s cousin and fellow poet, Titsian Tabidze, like many of the poet’s associates, was also arrested and eventually executed. Tabidze himself was interrogated and heavily beaten by Lavrentiy Beria. This plunged Galaktion into depression and alcoholism. His long silence and solitude saved him from the purges however; he continued to receive titles and awards, and published new poems, but the poet’s life was completely distorted.Severely ill and depressed, he was eventually placed in the Tbilisi psychiatric hospital where he ended his life, through jumping to his death from the hospital window, on Chavchavadze Avenue in Central Tbilisi, in 1959. He was interred at the Mtatsminda Pantheon, his funerals being attended by tens of thousands. In 2000 the Church of Georgia officially absolved Galaktion Tabidze from the sin of suicide.Tabidze authored thousands of poems that established him as one of the greatest Georgian poets with an immense impact on modern Georgian literature. His archive of about 100,000 items in the Literary Museum in Tbilisi still awaits full investigation. He has been translated into Russian, French, English, and German.

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William Shakespeare.. The father of literature. The best poet ever. Happy Poetry Day!

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Yunus Emre, (born c. 1238, Turkey—died c. 1320, Turkey), poet and mystic who exercised a powerful influence on Turkish literature.

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I heard u intend to leave us , don’t do..
U tend to have another love ,another friend, don’t do..

Don’t steal us from us and dont go far places
Oh! moon, the universe is overwhelmed for the sake of u

U are are overwhelminh us and going now , don’t do..
Oh! person, ur rank is between existence and absence

How u can leaving this existence, don’t do…
If u turn ur face to diffrent direction, moon will be totally dark

U intend to destroy house of moon, don’t do…
Our lips will be dry, if u are in difficulty

Now, u are making our eyes wet, don’t do..
If u can not handle with lovers

Why u are surprising when u see real love, don’t do
Ohh, the person who is holding heaven and hell on ur hands

Ur are turning our heaven to hell, don’t do…
If u are poison in our sugar cup, it doesnt harm us

But u are trying to make all sugar poisionus with absence, don’t do..

Mawlana Jalal Al-Din Al-Rumi

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“Late, by myself, in the boat of myself,
no light and no land anywhere,
cloudcover thick. I try to stay
just above the surface, yet I'm already under
and living within the ocean.”
― Rumi

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¿Qué es poesía?, dices mientras clavasen mi pupila tu pupila azul.¿Qué es poesía? ¿Y tú me lo preguntas?Poesía... eres tú.

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¿Qué es poesía?, dices mientras clavasen mi pupila tu pupila azul.¿Qué es poesía? ¿Y tú me lo preguntas?Poesía... eres tú.

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Tyger Tyger, burning bright,

In the forests of the night;

What immortal hand or eye,

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp,

Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

When the stars threw down their spears

And water'd heaven with their tears:

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,

In the forests of the night:

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

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OLD AS THE SEA

I want to outlive the stones, the mountains and the sea,
I want to wait, not to blink
So I can catch a glimpse of you ,
When you run by with the wind,
I want to fight off the wind,
To grow wings,
Angel wings, bird wings, butterfly wings ,
Your wind wings,
So when you stray by the park and read ,
I can fly above you and take a look at what poems you are reading .
My poem , maybe ?
And I realize it is about you .
But, who is "you "?
We will never know .
What we will forever know is
"That in black ink my love may still shine bright ".
You wrote this, if you remember .
And I think that I just revealed
For whom my undying love burns...
Even though you are ashes now...

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Love and pain

What do you think about when you say “love “?

Who is in your mind ?

What moments together,

You regret now crying?

The words have penetrated your armor...

Have you felt any emotions ?

Have you known you would say goodbye just from your eyes ?

Now I turn a page behind

and see pages from the past

They are the forgotten memories

Is that what hurt you?

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