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Silence by Edgar Lee Masters


I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea,
And the silence of the city when it pauses,
And the silence of a man and a maid,
And the silence of the sick
When their eyes roam about the room.
And I ask: For the depths,
Of what use is language?
A beast of the field moans a few times
When death takes its young.
And we are voiceless in the presence of realities --
We cannot speak.

A curious boy asks an old soldier
Sitting in front of the grocery store,
"How did you lose your leg?"
And the old soldier is struck with silence,
Or his mind flies away
Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg.
It comes back jocosely
And he says, "A bear bit it off."
And the boy wonders, while the old soldier
Dumbly, feebly lives over
The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon,
The shrieks of the slain,
And himself lying on the ground,
And the hospital surgeons, the knives,
And the long days in bed.
But if he could describe it all
He would be an artist.
But if he were an artist there would be deeper wounds
Which he could not describe.

There is the silence of a great hatred,
And the silence of a great love,
And the silence of an embittered friendship.
There is the silence of a spiritual crisis,
Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured,
Comes with visions not to be uttered
Into a realm of higher life.
There is the silence of defeat.
There is the silence of those unjustly punished;
And the silence of the dying whose hand
Suddenly grips yours.
There is the silence between father and son,
When the father cannot explain his life,
Even though he be misunderstood for it.

There is the silence that comes between husband and wife.
There is the silence of those who have failed;
And the vast silence that covers
Broken nations and vanquished leaders.
There is the silence of Lincoln,
Thinking of the poverty of his youth.
And the silence of Napoleon
After Waterloo.
And the silence of Jeanne d'Arc
Saying amid the flames, "Blessed Jesus" --
Revealing in two words all sorrows, all hope.
And there is the silence of age,
Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it
In words intelligible to those who have not lived
The great range of life.

And there is the silence of the dead.
If we who are in life cannot speak
Of profound experiences,
Why do you marvel that the dead
Do not tell you of death?
Their silence shall be interpreted
As we approach them.

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Time Without End - Poem by Arthur Rimbaud


We have found it again.
What? Time without end.
'Tis the ocean gone
For a walk with the sun.

Soul, you sentinel,
Murmur and confess,
Day is fiery hell,
Night is nothingness.

From the common urges,
From the human highest
Far thy path diverges:
Following thou fliest…

No expectancy,
No orietur,
Science patiently;
Punishment is sure.

From your blaze alone,
Satin flames of force,
Duty's breath is blown;
No one says : of course.

We have found it again.
What? Time without end.
'Tis the ocean gone
For a walk with the sun.


Arthur Rimbaud

Edited by paoladegliesposti

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Wow... I love these posts, so full of content.

Tomorrow if I dare I'll post a song I worte the other day but it's in spanish, I have to translate for you to understand.


Keep going, I want to

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Fuiste un faro de luz / You were a lighthouse

Que me atrajo desde la distancia / attracting me from the distance

La libertad que no conocía / The freedom that I didn’t know

Fue la trampa del destino / was the trap from destiny


Fueron mis tiempos mas felices / Those were my happiest times

Donde todo parecía posible / Where everything seemed posible

Cuando el mundo parecía despertar / When the world seemed to wake up

Después de un largo sueño de oscuridad / After a long darkness dream


Y ahora, pienso y pienso / and I now, I think and I think

Y no dejo de pensar / and I don´t stop thinking

Y mientras tanto dejo de sentir / and meanwhile I stop feeling

Y tus ojos parecen alejarse / and your eyes seem to move away


El futuro es un gran enigma / The future is a big enigma

Un gran signo de interrogación / A great question mark

Cúal será la ocasión? / What would be the occasion ?

Existe acaso ese lugar? Does it exist that place ?


Los nudos que la noche ataba / The knots that the night tied

El día no podía desatar / The day was not able to untie

El solo era una excusa / It was just an excuse

Para vivir en la realidad / To live in reality


El mundo nos observaba / The world watched us

Celoso, tan celoso / Jelous, so jelous

La unión mas perfecta / The most perfect union

Que Dios alguna vez pudo soñar / That God could never dream


Y ahora el sentir regresa / And now feeling returns

Ya no es posible detenerse / It’s not posible to stop now

Y el pulso se embriaga y se marea / And the pulse gets drunk and dizzy

Y la luna hace un guiño / and the moon makes a wink


El futuro es un gran enigma / And the future is a big enigma

Un gran signo de interrogación / A great question mark

Cúal será la ocasión? / What would be the ocassion ?

Existe acaso ese lugar? / Does it exist that place ?


El alma ha quedado impresa / Soul has been printed

De esos días y de esas noches / Of those days and those nights

Y esos poemas, esas melodías / and those poems, those melodies      

Definieron de una vez y para siempre / defined from once and for ever

El resto de nuestra historia / the rest of our story

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How to pick up a flower,how to look at it and how to smell the rich fragrance that it spreads and the air is pregnant of it.
Howard can do it and it is art,in their house Grace is living her love. Passionate as she is, she has allowed.
Silence is interrupted by whispers of Howard that wants to express with the voice the intense time he is rushing.
All that has been between them just like a mistery has dissolved,because their love doesn't know dark negative waves.
They have met again and in the most splendid light.
'We are a force of the nature Grace, we have been blessed since our birth and we have met because we are an unique cellule to work positively in the universe.
Because this is universe, we are in the universe and we are of plus sign.
'When Howard talks in this way, Grace is marveled, but also worried,she knows how to deal in the real world.'
' Yes we can do the best for ourselves and for our dearest and we can do the reasonable for the others.'
' Let me tell you that you weren't the first in my life but you are going to be.'
' This is a compliment, I accept it with humility,i feel you are honest.'
' We are not young bodies anymore,but our sexuality is fresh and our affection is tender. We are adults,adolescents and children at the same point. Is it original, isn't it?'
' Howard,we can go on. In front of us there is not a desert,but a green land.'
' Grace,I promise, I won't be distant from you any minute of your life, nor in thoughts, neither in presence.'
' Thanks.'
Grace answers and he kisses him on the lips. They are the happiness.


'The boy who lives down the hill. Part.Two. Chapter thirtyFive.

( It's me writing)

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:) last one,here


The winding road and on the coach directed to the village, Shaun and Pete are having another glimpse of effervescent life.
They are playing cards with six boy scouts. They are boys of courage and energy well spent during the night and the day.
Pete has given to them their tent of fortune, Shaun has been disappointed for that, but he hasn't shown it clearly to the others.
He simply doesn't understand the magnificence Pete wants to grant for sure.
' Stop,we have won!' Pete tells them and lets cards in disorder over the small support surface.'
'Okay!' Ronald the young fellow claps the hands and accepts the victory of the two boys against them.
And now a toast for ourselves!' Another boy whose name is Stewart takes out a bottle of brandy and offers it to everyone. Only a sip.
Shaun holds his teeth tight as he swallows the perfumed liquid.
Pete smiles to the others as shared complacency.
Kenneth, the speaker of the group has begun telling a story of the passed experience in the national park.
They have met many animals and they have learnt interesting behaviours.
Pete and Shaun are listening to him and makes comments of astonishment,they never had such experience in their life.
The village is located in a green flourished area, full of cultivated fields, a flat land also ideal for pasture of cattle.
From the window they can see it.
Boy scouts have been invited to join them at the village.
' A recommendation, we have healthy rules in the community,these regard especially the consumption of alcoholics and smoking.'
'Of course, we are scouts ,we are not bohemians!'
Pete throws a kick to the foot of Shaun.


(It's me writing)

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The star/
that gives us light/
Has been gone a while
But it’s not an illusion/
The ache/
In my heart/
Is so much a part of who I am/
Something in your eyes
Took a thousand years to get here/
Something in your eyes
Took a thousand years, a thousand years/

Hold me close,/ hold me close and don’t let me go./
Hold me close like I’m someone that you might know/
Hold me close the darkness just lets us see/
Who we are
I’ve got your life inside of me/

Iris... Iris...

Once/ we are born/, we begin to forget/
The very reason we came/
But you
I’m sure I’ve met/
Long before the night the stars went out/
We’re meeting up again/

Hold me close,/ hold me close and don’t let me go./
Hold me close/ like I’m someone that you might know/
Hold me close,/ the darkness just lets us see/
Who we are/
I’ve got your life inside of me/

Iris... Iris...

The stars are bright but do they know/
The universe is beautiful but cold/

You took me by the hand/
I thought that I was leading you/
But it was you made me your man
I dream
Where you are/
Iris standing in the hall/
She tells me I can do it all/
Iris wakes to my nightmares
Don’t fear the world it isn’t there/

Iris playing on the strand/
She buries the boy beneath the sand,/
Iris says that I will be the death of her/
It was not me/

Iris... Iris...

Free yourself, to be yourself if only you could see yourself

Free yourself, to be yourself if only you could see...

it's amazement ( from middle low ,to middle high) WOW.

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Where I live in this honorable House of The Laurel Tree

By Anne Sexton


I live in my wooden legs and O
my green green hands.
Too late
to wish I had not run from you, Apollo,
blood moves still in my bark bound veins.
I, who ran nymph foot to foot in flight,
have only this late desire to arm the trees
I lie within. The measure that I have lost
silks my pulse. Each century the trickeries
of need pain me everywhere.
Frost taps my skin and I stay glossed
in honor for you are gone in time. The air
rings for you, for that astonishing rite
of my breathing tent undone within your light.
I only know how untimely lust has tossed
flesh at the wind forever and moved my fears
toward the intimate Rome of myth we crossed.
I am a fist of my unease
as I spill toward the stars in the empty years.
I build the air with the crown of honor; it keys
my out of time and luckless appetite.
You gave me honor too soon, Apollo.
There is no one left who understands
how I wait
here in my wooden legs and O
my green green hands.

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I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals--
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting--
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,--
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings--
I know why the caged bird sings!


Paul Laurence Dunbar

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Love And The Gentle Heart - Poem by Dante Alighieri


Love and the gentle heart are one thing,
just as the poet says in his verse,
each from the other one as well divorced
as reason from the mind’s reasoning.

Nature craves love, and then creates love king,
and makes the heart a palace where he’ll stay,
perhaps a shorter or a longer day,
breathing quietly, gently slumbering.

Then beauty in a virtuous woman’s face
makes the eyes yearn, and strikes the heart,
so that the eyes’ desire’s reborn again,
and often, rooting there with longing, stays,

Till love, at last, out of its dreaming starts.
Woman’s moved likewise by a virtuous man.

Edited by paoladegliesposti

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This is written by a friend of mine, Phyllis Rachel Larrabee.


A Blue Ceramic Sun


A blue ceramic sun from Mexico


hangs above the stove


its rays shine purple


purple yellow green red

red purple yellow green red!


such bright rays

such blue face sad




for all its children

inheriting this land

as the clay does


shunted across borders





sun rays bright

blue facesad




for all its children.

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Be Kind - Poem by Charles Bukowski


we are always asked
to understand the other person's
no matter how
foolish or

one is asked
to view
their total error
their life-waste
especially if they are

but age is the total of
our doing.
they have aged
because they have
out of focus,
they have refused to

not their fault?

whose fault?

I am asked to hide
my viewpoint
from them
for fear of their

age is no crime

but the shame
of a deliberately

among so many


Edited by paoladegliesposti

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Thinking Of A Friend At Night - Poem by Hermann Hesse


In this evil year, autumn comes early...
I walk by night in the field, alone, the rain clatters,
The wind on my hat...And you? And you, my friend?

You are standing- maybe- and seeing the sickle moon
Move in a small arc over the forests
And bivouac fire, red in the black valley.
You are lying- maybe- in a straw field and sleeping
And dew falls cold on your forehead and battle jacket.

It's possible tonight you're on horseback,
The farthest outpost, peering along, with a gun in your fist,
Smiling, whispering, to your exhausted horse.
Maybe- I keep imagining- you are spending the night
As a guest in a strange castle with a park
And writing a letter by candlelight, and tapping
On the piano keys by the window,
Groping for a sound...

- And maybe
You are already silent, already dead, and the day
Will shine no longer into your beloved
Serious eyes, and your beloved brown hand hangs wilted,
And your white forehead split open- Oh, if only,
If only, just once, that last day, I had shown you, told you
Something of my love, that was too timid to speak!

But you know me, you know...and, smiling, you nod
Tonight in front of your strange castle,
And you nod to your horse in the drenched forest,
And you nod to your sleep to your harsh clutter of straw,
And think about me, and smile.
And maybe,
Maybe some day you will come back from the war,
and take a walk with me some evening,
And somebody will talk about Longwy, Luttich, Dammerkirch,
And smile gravely, and everything will be as before,
And no one will speak a word of his worry,
Of his worry and tenderness by night in the field,
Of his love. And with a single joke
You will frighten away the worry, the war, the uneasy nights,
The summer lightning of shy human friendship,
Into the cool past that will never come back.

Translated by James Wrigh

Edited by paoladegliesposti

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This is part of a Metta practice I learned from Thanissaro Bhikkhu. Useful for goodwill amongst difficulty


May you learn the error of your ways

learn the way to true happiness,

and look after yourself with ease


(Sounds like an Irish Blessing ?)

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Conscientious Objector - Poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay


I shall die, but
that is all that I shall do for Death.
I hear him leading his horse out of the stall;
I hear the clatter on the barn-floor.
He is in haste; he has business in Cuba,
business in the Balkans, many calls to make this morning.
But I will not hold the bridle
while he clinches the girth.
And he may mount by himself:
I will not give him a leg up.

Though he flick my shoulders with his whip,
I will not tell him which way the fox ran.
With his hoof on my breast, I will not tell him where
the black boy hides in the swamp.
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death;
I am not on his pay-roll.

I will not tell him the whereabout of my friends
nor of my enemies either.
Though he promise me much,
I will not map him the route to any man's door.
Am I a spy in the land of the living,
that I should deliver men to Death?
Brother, the password and the plans of our city
are safe with me; never through me Shall you be overcome.

Edited by paoladegliesposti

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Eulalie - Poem by Edgar Allan Poe


I dwelt alone

In a world of moan,
And my soul was a stagnant tide,
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride-
Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.

Ah, less- less bright
The stars of the night
Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
That the vapor can make
With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl-
Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless

Now Doubt- now Pain
Come never again,
For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
And all day long
Shines, bright and strong,
Astarte within the sky,
While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye-
While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.

Edited by paoladegliesposti

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A Lady Who Thinks She Is Thirty - Poem by Ogden Nash



Unwillingly Miranda wakes,
Feels the sun with terror,
One unwilling step she takes,
Shuddering to the mirror.

Miranda in Miranda's sight
Is old and gray and dirty;
Twenty-nine she was last night;
This morning she is thirty.

Shining like the morning star,
Like the twilight shining,
Haunted by a calendar,
Miranda is a-pining.

Silly girl, silver girl,
Draw the mirror toward you;
Time who makes the years to whirl
Adorned as he adored you.

Time is timelessness for you;
Calendars for the human;
What's a year, or thirty, to
Loveliness made woman?

Oh, Night will not see thirty again,
Yet soft her wing, Miranda;
Pick up your glass and tell me, then--
How old is Spring, Miranda?

Edited by paoladegliesposti

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may this song reach the sky/

may the will be portentous/

we are strong and faithful

of our best and strong efforts/

may this song reach your senses/

may these words enchant you

for the day long/

on this day/

floating on subjects/

sometimes it is better to ignore/

clicking on some pictures/

you may laugh

or screams about them/

we reach the hignest

love caress/together/

we reach the highest love


with no word/

or touch/

we are one

and complete/because

we are positive/

we are one

and complete/

oh oh oh/



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Song Of Myself - Poem by Sir Walter Raleigh


I was a Poet!
But I did not know it,
Neither did my Mother,
Nor my Sister nor my Brother.
The Rich were not aware of it;
The Poor took no care of it.
The Reverend Mr. Drewitt
Never knew it.
The High did not suspect it;
The Low could not detect it.
Aunt Sue
Said it was obviously untrue.
Uncle Ned
Said I was off my head:
(This from a Colonial
Was really a good testimonial.)
Still everybody seemed to think
That genius owes a good deal to drink.
So that is how
I am not a poet now,
And why
My inspiration has run dry.
It is no sort of use
To cultivate the Muse
If vulgar people
Can't tell a village pump from a church steeple.
I am merely apologizing
For the lack of the surprising
In what I write
I am quite well-meaning,
But a lot of things are always intervening
What I mean
And what it is said
I had in my head.
It is all very puzzling.
Uncle Ned
Says Poets need muzzling.
He might
Be right.

Edited by paoladegliesposti

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A little while, a little while...


A little while, a little while,
The weary task is put away,
And I can sing and I can smile,
Alike, while I have holiday.

Why wilt thou go, my harassed heart,
What thought, what scene invites thee now?
What spot, or near or far,
Has rest for thee, my weary brow?

There is a spot, mid barren hills,
Where winter howls, and driving rain;
But if the dreary tempest chills,
There is a light that warms again.

The house is old, the trees are bare,
Moonless above bends twilight's dome;
But what on earth is half so dear,
So longed for, as the hearth of home?

The mute bird sitting on the stone,
The dank moss dripping from the wall,
The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown,
I love them, how I love them all!

Still, as I mused, the naked room,
The alien firelight died away,
And from the midst of cheerless gloom
I passed to bright unclouded day.

A little and a lone green lane
That opened on a common wide;
A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain
Of mountains circling every side;

A heaven so clear, an earth so calm,
So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air;
And, deepening still the dream-like charm,
Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.

That was the scene, I knew it well;
I knew the turfy pathway's sweep
That, winding o'er each billowy swell,
Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep.

Could I have lingered but an hour,
It well had paid a week of toil;
But Truth has banished Fancy's power:
Restraint and heavy task recoil.

Even as I stood with raptured eye,
Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear,
My hour of rest had fleeted by,
And back came labour, bondage, care.


Emily Jane Brontè




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Past, Present, Future - Poem by Emily Jane Brontë


Tell me, tell me, smiling child,
What the past is like to thee ?
'An Autumn evening soft and mild
With a wind that sighs mournfully.'

Tell me, what is the present hour ?
'A green and flowery spray
Where a young bird sits gathering its power
To mount and fly away.'

And what is the future, happy one ?
'A sea beneath a cloudless sun ;
A mighty, glorious, dazzling sea
Stretching into infinity.'


Edited by paoladegliesposti

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Song of Songs


Sing me at morn but only with your laugh;
Even as Spring that laugheth into leaf;
Even as Love that laugheth after Life.

Sing me but only with your speech all day,
As voluble leaflets do; let viols die;
The least word of your lips is melody!

Sing me at eve but only your sigh!
Like lifting seas it solaceth; breathe so,
Slowly and low, the sense that no songs say.

Sing me at midnight with your murmurous heart!
Let youth's immortal-moaning chord be heard
Throbbing through you, and sobbing, unsubdued.


Wilfred Owen



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Twice Shy - Poem by Seamus Heaney


Her scarf a la Bardot,

In suede flats for the walk,

She came with me one evening

For air and friendly talk.

We crossed the quiet river,

Took the embankment walk.


Traffic holding its breath,

Sky a tense diaphragm:

Dusk hung like a backcloth

That shook where a swan swam,

Tremulous as a hawk

Hanging deadly, calm.


A vacuum of need

Collapsed each hunting heart

But tremulously we held

As hawk and prey apart,

Preserved classic decorum,

Deployed our talk with art.


Our Juvenilia

Had taught us both to wait,

Not to publish feeling

And regret it all too late -

Mushroom loves already

Had puffed and burst in hate.


So, chary and excited,

As a thrush linked on a hawk,

We thrilled to the March twilight

With nervous childish talk:

Still waters running deep

Along the embankment walk.



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