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| May 27 2008, 6:36 AM EDT (current) | risenphoenix | |
| Jan 17 2008, 11:47 PM EST | risenphoenix | 1 photo added, 1 photo deleted |
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Welcome to "Poetry".. Here you can add your own favourite poems for everyone to read.
Some poems or songs would have inspired you, touched you or amazed you at some point in your life. Share those epiphanic moments with us.
You can add new pages or new content to the existing pages by signing up. Please use your discretion in doing so. You may invite your friends to contribute.
Please give acknowledgments and credits for the poems as well as images.
Any content or image without acknowledgments will be removed.
Any objectionable content or image will be removed immediately and the user will be banned from contributing further.
Thanks and let us have some good times :)
Poet, Lover, Birdwatcher
To force the pace and never to be still
Is not the way of those who study birds
Or women. The best poets wait for words.
The hunt is not an exercise of will
But patient love relaxing on a hill
To note the movement of a timid wing;
Until the one who knows that she is loved
No longer waits but risks surrendering -
In this the poet finds his moral proved
Who never spoke before his spirit moved.
The slow movement seems, somehow, to say much more.
To watch the rarer birds, you have to go
Along deserted lanes and where the rivers flow
In silence near the source, or by a shore
Remote and thorny like the heart's dark floor.
And there the women slowly turn around,
Not only flesh and bone but myths of light
With darkness at the core, and sense is found
But poets lost in crooked, restless flight,
The deaf can hear, the blind recover sight.
-- Nissim Ezekiel
External Links
Is not the way of those who study birds
Or women. The best poets wait for words.
The hunt is not an exercise of will
But patient love relaxing on a hill
To note the movement of a timid wing;
Until the one who knows that she is loved
No longer waits but risks surrendering -
In this the poet finds his moral proved
Who never spoke before his spirit moved.
The slow movement seems, somehow, to say much more.
To watch the rarer birds, you have to go
Along deserted lanes and where the rivers flow
In silence near the source, or by a shore
Remote and thorny like the heart's dark floor.
And there the women slowly turn around,
Not only flesh and bone but myths of light
With darkness at the core, and sense is found
But poets lost in crooked, restless flight,
The deaf can hear, the blind recover sight.
-- Nissim Ezekiel
External Links
Poetseers.org RSS
