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HappinessHappiness is theHappiness
sound of rigging hitting the mast in early morn,
soft waves lapping at the sides of boats, while over gulls hunt the pink dawn
for a reflection on clear water, my bare feet causing faint ripples
waiting for the signs
of life to drift awake and raise a friendly hand
a wave of kinship in a world too vast even for small boy echoes
where the smell of sea
and the sounds of my rigging are my happiness
by ~Danteholic
The Language of SorrowWhat language is this that drapes your tongue? This distress that ridges your lips and impresses a dryness with every cratered heaving of lungs in chest. The flavour of words have been swallowed, what remains is a noise raw - its rasp at my throat, and its sting at my eyes, a widening area of effect. This hollowness of time that weighs heavy on your tongue and produces a slowness of motion, a thickness of moans for your lost ones, this, your new language filled with long ululations, echo with a dullness within myThe Language of Sorrow
by ~Danteholic
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| Starvation Camp Near Jaslo Write it down. Write it. With ordinary ink on ordinary paper: they weren't given food, they all died of hunger. All. How many? It's a large meadow. How much grass per head? Write down: I don't know. History rounds off skeletons to zero. A thousand and one is still only a thousand. That one seems never to have existed: a fictitious fetus, an empty cradle, a primer opened for no one, air that laughs, cries, and grows, stairs for a void bounding out to the garden, no one's spot in the ranks. It became flesh right here, on this meadow. But the meadow's silent, like a witness who's been bought. Sunny. Green. A forest close at hand, with wood to chew on, drops beneath the bark to drink — a view served round the clock, until you go blind. Above, a bird whose shadow flicked its nourishing wings across their lips. Jaws dropped, teeth clattered. At night a sickle glistened in the sky and reaped the dark for dreamed-of loaves. Hands came flying from blackened icons, each holding an empty chalice. A man swayed on a grill of barbed wire. Some sang, with dirt in their mouths. That lovely song about war hitting you straight in the heart. Write how quiet it is. Yes. (Wislawa Szymborska — translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh) Music: Sia Soon We'll Be Found | Death by Chocolate | Under the Milky Way Email: autumn.clarity@hotmail.com |
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--
Daphne says 'hello'.
Rose
--
find me a storm where the wild winds blow.
methinks that you're a very promising poet!
i'm putting a watch on you so that I can better follow your work
I'd love it if you'd take a look at my poetry!
--
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
J. Keats
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