SHE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that ‘s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow’d to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair’d the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain
Full charactered with lasting memory,
Which shall above that idle rank remain
Beyond all date even to eternity—
Or at the least, so long as brain and heart
Have faculty by nature to subsist;
Till each to razed oblivion yield his part
Of thee, thy record never can be missed.
That poor retention could not so much hold,
Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score;
Therefore to give them from me was I bold,
To trust those tables that receive thee more.
To keep an adjunct to remember thee
Were to import forgetfulness in me.

Paul Eluard

Même quand nous dormons nous veillons l’un sur l’autre
Et cet amour plus lourd que le fruit mûr d’un lac
Sans rire et sans pleurer dure depuis toujours
Un jour après un jour une nuit après nous.

(Derniers Poèmes d’amour)

]]> http://poesiedumonde.com/meme-quand-nous-dormons/feed/ 0 http://poesiedumonde.com/lines-written-in-early-spring/ http://poesiedumonde.com/lines-written-in-early-spring/#comments Sat, 19 May 2012 17:00:33 +0000 maria http://poesiedumonde.com/?p=2539 William Wordsworth 1700 – 1850

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sat reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thought I cannot measure:—
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

Dove Cottage

Dove Cottage in Grasmere, Lake District, was William Wordsworth’s home from 1799 to 1808. Here Wordsworth wrote most of his poetry for which he is remembered today. The home was also the home of his sister Dorothy, also an English author, poet and diarist.  In 1802 William married Mary Hutchinson, the three oldest children were born in Dove Cottage. Also William’s friend Thomas De Quincey lived there as well as Mary’s sister Sarah Hutchinson.  William and Mary had many visitors to Dove Cottage – Walter Scott, Thomas De Quincey, Charles and Mary Lamb, Robert Southey and  Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Allan Bank

Dove Cottage became too small with all the visitors and also the growing family so in May 1808 they moved to Allan Bank in Grasmere.

Wordworth’s homes and gardens

Ich möchte den Mondenschein
über die Gewässer der Nacht ziehen,
darin das Silberruder sein und sie durchqueren,
und danach im Stern verschmelzen,
der den schlafenden Lichtpfad weckt.

Verlieren möchte ich mich dann
in einem entfernten und verhüllenden Schein,
innehalten und dafür das Unfassbare lieben,
ohne bemerkt zu werden,
und so verweilen
in der Gegenbewegung zum Vergessen des Tages

Auszug aus “Weltklang Nacht der Poesie”   Edition diá
Zusammenstellung Literaturwerkstatt Berlin

Verifying…
Characters incorrect.

Cancel. Done.
Connect. Done.

Type tea.
It’s a cyber cafe.

Search: your third eye
lost in the internet.

You compute.
Is there a software

for love or a command?
Tell me

can love be
programmed?

Beauty is surf.
Surfing beauty.

Here there is
no boundary.

You need no
permission

to enter into
any body’s site.

Download bytes.
You only need

a smooth surfing
in a lusty web

with open sites.
Run anti-virus.

Is the love
poem you received

through e-mail
is by an alien.

Robot? Reply.
Your vision

makes an inductive
leap.

The fear grips
an e-age as the century

turns.
Shri Y2K acquires

the Satanic status.
Reboot love

and life.
Search

your third eye
in the world wide web.

Site not found.

© Vihang A. Naik

From :
Poetry Manifesto ( New & Selected Poems ) by Vihang A. Naik
Published by Indialog Publications Pvt. Ltd , New Delhi, 2010 .
ISBN : 8184430337 ; ISBN-13 : 9788184430332, 978-8184430332

With the kind permission of the author

Vihang A Naik

Vihang A Naik was born in Surat, Gujarat on September 2, 1969. He is India’s contemporary poet writing in English who is widely published and anthologized and won awards. His poems have appeared in such literary journals as : Indian Literature : A Sahitya Akademi Bi-Monthly Journal , Kavya Bharati , POESIS : A Journal of Poetry Circle , Mumbai , The Journal of The Poetry Society ( India ) , The Journal of Indian Writing In English , The Journal of Literature and Aesthetics , The Brown Critique ,The Poetry Chain among other significant journals. He is educated from The M.S. University of Baroda with Philosophy , Indian and English Literature . More here.

Oh, the charm of idle dreaming
Where the dappled shadows dance,
All the leafy aisles are teeming
With the lure of old romance!

Down into the forest dipping,
Deep and deeper as we go,
One might fancy dryads slipping
Where the white-stemmed birches grow.

Lurking gnome and freakish fairy
In the fern may peep and hide . . .
Sure their whispers low and airy
Ring us in on every side!

Saw you where the pines are rocking
Nymph’s white shoulder as she ran?
Lo, that music faint and mocking,
Is it not a pipe of Pan?

Hear you that elusive laughter
Of the hidden waterfall?
Nay, a satyr speeding after
Ivy-crowned bacchanal.

Far and farther as we wander
Sweeter shall our roaming be,
Come, for dim and winsome yonder
Lies the path to Arcady!

]]> http://poesiedumonde.com/the-forest-path/feed/ 0 http://poesiedumonde.com/ballast/ http://poesiedumonde.com/ballast/#comments Sat, 12 May 2012 10:05:17 +0000 maria http://poesiedumonde.com/?p=2500 Rita Reiners (1911 – 1988)

Der Kopf
ist vollgestopft
mit Gerümpel.
In den Augen
nisten Tränen
die nie flügge wurden
und trüben den Blick.

Tu die Vergangenheit ab
und lass sie liegen.
Was kümmert die Schlange
ihre abgeworfene Haut?
Falter schlüpfen
aus ihren Puppen,
elfenhaft,
in vollkommener
Metamorphose.

Auszug aus “Der Dornbusch” Seite 21
Scherbe Verlag Krefeld

Die Lyrikerin Rita Reiners wurde als Henriette Dorothea Reiners am 01.04.1911 in Münster geboren. Nach dem Besuch des Realgymnasiums in Krefeld ließ sich Rita Reiners von 1932 bis 1937 in Berlin zur Opernsängerin ausbilden. Ihre Bühnentätigkeit musste sie nach zwei Jahren jedoch aus gesundheitlichen Gründen aufgeben. Danach lebte sie bis 1944 in Budapest und kehrte 1952 nach Krefeld zurück.
Nach Beendigung ihrer Bühnentätigkeit war Rita Reiners als Lyrikerin und Schriftstellerin tätig. Ihr schriftstellerisches Werk ist in den Jahren nach 1946 erschienen. Dabei handelt es sich in erster Linie um Gedichte, aber auch um Erzählungen und Romane (einschließlich zweier Tierbücher). Weitere Veröffentlichungen erfolgten unter dem Pseudonym „Marion Mönnichfeld”.
Am 25.03.1976 wurde ihr in Anerkennung ihres literarischen Werkes die Ehrenplakette der Stadt Krefeld im Rittersaal der Burg Linn verliehen.
Rita Reiners starb am 04.04.1988 in Krefeld.  (Source: www.krefeld.de/)

At last they fade from sight, those fields
of white crosses, rigid, regimented,
on parade. But now the Sacred Way
cuts through woodland, dense as battle-smoke,
concealing still the threat of instant death.
Here the war continues, birch and alder
inter-strangle with their tangled limbs;
some in shell holes stand like moated forts
flooded nearly ninety years ago.
Some defend a blast-heaped mound of mud,
undetonated weapons, metal waste
and chips of bone from countless unknown graves.
Occasionally through these haunted woods
officialdom has hacked and flattened lawns
as if to gentrify barbarity.
On each firebreak greensward cowslips peal
their yellow bells and sway seductive stems
so unconcerned, so innocently proud
that instantly, from thirty years ago
I hear Joan Baez singing her lament
where have all the graveyards gone?
Gone to flowers every one.
When will they ever learn?
Perhaps in Viet Nam days this could appear
a plea for common sense, but not again.
The song is so much older than the Nam.
These are cowslips of reality.
Their innocent persistence now declares
our lemming-like obsession has no end.
All is passion-driven, irrepressible,
unreasoned, uncontrollable, unchecked
from flowers to girls to young men waging war
to cowslips blowing kisses on their graves.

With the kind permission of the author