Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts

Friday, September 10, 2010

One Learns to Write Haiku

mountains tall and strong
coated in evergreen woods
all filled with wildlife

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Nurse's Song (Innocence)

When the voices of children are heard on the green
And laughing is heard on the hill,
My heart is at rest within my breast
And every thing else is still

Then come home my children, the sun is gone down
And the dews of night arise
Come come leave off play, and let us away
Till the morning appears in the skies

No no let us play, for it is yet day
And we cannot go to sleep
Besides in the sky, the little birds fly
And the hills are all cover'd with sheep

Well well go & play till the light fades away
And then go home to bed
The little ones leaped & shouted & laugh'd
And all the hills ecchoed

--- Wiliam Blake

Thursday, May 15, 2008

Update and Poetry

My mom is in town so I'm a little distracted and haven't had time to write anything decent. I'm also having a sleep study tonight, and am stressing out a little about that. But in order to post something, here is one of my favorite poems:

Here too. Here as at the other edge
Of the hemisphere, an endless plain
Where a man’s cry dies a lonely death.
Here too the Indian, the lasso, the wild horse.
Here too the bird that never shows itself,
That sings for the memory of one evening
Over the rumblings of history;
Here too the mystic alphabet of stars
Leading my pen over the page to names
Not swept aside in the continual labyrinth of days: San Jacinto
And that other Thermopylae, the Alamo.
Here too the never understood,
Anxious, and brief affair that is life.

Aquí también. Aquí, como en el otro
Confín del continente, el infinito
Campo en que muere solitario el grito;
Aquí también el indio, el lazo, el potro.
Aquí también el párajo secreto
Que sobre los fragores de la historia
Canta para una tarde y su memoria;
Aquí también el místico alfabeto
De los astros, que hoy dictan a mi cálamo
Nombres que el incesante laberinto
De los días no arrastra: San Jacinto
Y esas otras Termópilas, el Alamo.
Aquí también esa desconocida
Y ansiosa y breve cosa que es la vida.
Jorge Luis Borges: The Self and the Other (El Otro, El Mismo)