So this Poem isn't mine and Its one come next Sunday I'll be saying at a reading. It's one of many where I won't need a prompt as I know the words off by heart. But I'll have them written down in case nerves strike.. In Flanders Fields, by John McRae In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.
Sorpresa que viene del viento Cold, cold Fine, the cold is fine Pero aquello que mata de frío Allí Tú It's cold You're cold I'm not Veux-tu un peu de ma chaleur?
My Boy Jack, by Rudyard Kipling "Have you news of my boy Jack?" Not this tide. "When d’you think that he’ll come back?" Not with this wind blowing, and this tide. Has any one else had word of him?" Not this tide. For what is sunk will hardly swim, Not with this wind blowing, and this tide. "Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?" None this tide, Nor any tide, Except he did not shame his kind — Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide. Then hold your head up all the more, This tide, And every tide; Because he was the son you bore, And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!
The Cenotaph, by Charlotte Mew Not yet will those measureless fields be green again Where only yesterday the wild sweet blood of wonderful youth was shed; There is a grave whose earth must hold too long, too deep a stain, Though for ever over it we may speak as proudly as we may tread. But here, where the watchers by lonely hearths from the thrust of an inward sword have more slowly bled, We shall build the Cenotaph: Victory, winged, with Peace, winged too, at the column's head. And over the stairway, at the foot - oh! here, leave desolate, passionate hands to spread Violets, roses, and laurel with the small sweet twinkling country things Speaking so wistfully of other Springs From the little gardens of little places where son or sweetheart was born and bred. In splendid sleep, with a thousand brothers To lovers - to mothers Here, too, lies he: Under the purple, the green, the red, It is all young life: it must break some women's hearts to see Such a brave, gay coverlet to such a bed! Only, when all is done and said, God is not mocked and neither are the dead. For this will stand in our Market-place - Who'll sell, who'll buy (Will you or I Lie each to each with the better grace)? While looking into every busy whore's and huckster's face As they drive their bargains, is the Face Of God: and some young, piteous, murdered face.
Poetry (Also posted orally in "Voice") When the writing shifts into poetry mode the words begin to hover slightly not wanting to be bound to the ruled line. Then they want to breathe and begin branching themselves into patterns and rhythms of space that bud and bloom into flower and fruit. Sometimes a spider monkey comes to haunch on a low limb like a fig offering itself to a tree. Sometimes a terrible fish stares below the surface words daring you into reflection. When a poem calls and you wake to listen this type of thing starts to happen which may not seem like much to many but when it’s mostly all you’ve got and it’s how the rose blooms in your soul it can be the better part of everything. You have to let it into the natural silence in which it grows and brings its berries to blossom: rose berries—the juiciest kind— once you’ve known the rose berries you’ll always live in the wake of their fragrance. You'll be a goner—always with the urge to pursue in words like these that chase across such lines trying to apprehend an essence which in fact is themselves squeezed out by some poet.
El perdón ¿Qué fuerza más sanadora puede haber? Que afrontar los errores Callar al orgullo incesante Tomar el valor inagotable Y decir: Perdón Perdón a ti A mí Qué bello es el perdón Liberarse de las penas Quitarse de encima las condenas El perdón es compasión Es amarse y aceptarse
