The Puppy Pacc Emporium of Ideas

Make your own poetry

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Shameless bump for the poetry thread In these troubled times it may be nice to remember the arts and how creative thinking enrich our lives as humans.Poetry, I believe, is not a bad place to start.

You say you have a heart, and only
you say it because you feel its heartbeat.
That is not heart ...; it's a machine,
that, to the beat that moves, makes noise.

Author: Gustavo Adolfo Becquer

Of all the little life that is left to me
I’d give with pleasure the best years,
to know what to others
you’ve told about me.

And this mortal life, and from the eternal one
whatever gets to me, if anything gets to me,
to know what in solitude
you have thought about me
Rhyme LI

The dark swallows will return
in your balcony their nests to hang,
and once again with the wing to their crystals
playing they will call.

But those whose flight held back
your beauty and my bliss to behold,
those that learned our names…
those… will not come back!.

The bushy honeysuckles will return
for your garden walls to climb,
and once again in the afternoon even more beautiful
their flowers will blossom.

But those, curdled by the dew
whose drops we saw tremble
and fall like tears of the day…
those… will not come back!

From love they will return to your ears
the words burning to sound;
your heart in its profound sleep
perhaps will wake up.

But mute and absorted and by the knees
how one adores God before his altar,
how I have loved you…; wisen up,
like this… they won’t love you!
Rhyme LIII

Source: Béquer's Rhymes; translated by moi

When we have done all the work we were sent to do,
we are allowed to shed our bodies,
which imprisons our soul like a cocoon encloses the butterfly
and when the time is right we can let go of it.
Then we will be free of pain, free of fears and free of worries--
free as a beautiful butterfly returning home to God....

-Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

Nigga nigga nig
Nigga nigga nigga nig
Nigga nigga nig
-Tzar

Title: On His Blindness
Author: Jorge Luis Borges

In the fullness of the years, like it or not,
a luminous mist surrounds me, unvarying,
that breaks things down into a single thing,
colourless, formless. Almost into thought.
The elemental, vast night and the day
teeming with people have become the fog
of constant, tentative light that does not flag,
and lies in wait at dawn. I longed to see
just once a human face. Unknown to me
the closed encyclopaedia, the sweet play
in volumes I can do no more than hold,
the tiny soaring birds, the moons of gold.
Others have the world, for better or worse;
I have this half-dark, and the toil of verse.

Tú eras el huracán y yo la alta
torre que desafía su poder:
¡tenías que estrellarte o abatirme!…
¡No pudo ser!

Tú eras el Océano y yo la enhiesta
roca que firme aguarda su vaivén
¡tenías que romperte o que arrancarme!…
¡No pudo ser!

hermosa tú, yo altivo; acostumbrados
uno a arrollar, el otro a no ceder;
la senda estrecha, inevitable el choque…
¡No pudo ser!

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

‎You were the hurricane and‎ I was the tall
tower that challenges its power:
you had to crash or shoot me down!... ‎
‎It couldn't be!‎

‎You were the Ocean and I‎ was the upright
rock‎‎ that firm awaits its swing,
you had to break or tear me off!... ‎
‎It couldn't be!‎

‎beautiful you, haughty me; us accustomed‎
one ‎to overwhelm, the other not to give in; ‎
the narrow path, inevitable crash... ‎
‎It couldn't be!‎