Here's the thing: I didn't like poetry before. Of course, I loved Nizar Qabbani, but besides his poems, and the few ones we learned at school, poetry wasn't appealing to me. Turns out, I was reading poems the right way because I never gave a poem enough time to be assimilated. I read poems once, at any time and any place. I read a huge number of poems in one session. These were all signs of unhealthy reading. With time, and other people' s experiences, I learned that each poem must be read as carefully as can be (more than once for sure), and that one can never read poems unless the mood is right.
That's when I decided to throw the Book Lovers' first poetry reading night, where people got to read their own poems or their favorite ones. Also, we all wrote down what poetry meant to us and here's the result:
"Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason"
Novalis
Afterwards, I started attending poetry nights. I also committed myself to posting a poem a day for about a month on the facebook page affiliated with this blog (Click Here). This was by far the best mean to discovering new poets, and mostly breathing in their words. If you are a newbie in poetry or not, I highly encourage you to reading a poem a day. Below you'll find a selection of the poems I posted on the facebook page (the last one is one of my most favorite poems ever).
Enjoy
Poem by surrealist poet Robert Desnos (1900-1945). Aside from
poetry he was a French resistant, and was deported to a concentration camp.
He died from Typhoid only weeks after his liberation from the camp.
"GOOD DAY GOOD EVENING"
It's
night be the flame
And the red that colors the clouds Good day sir Good evening madam You don't look your age
What
does it matter if your embraces
Make the twin stars bleed What does it matter if your face is painted if hoarfrost glitters on the branches
Of
granite or marble
Your age will show And the shade of the great trees will walk on your graves.
Poem by Swedish poet Karin Boye (1900-1941)
"How can I tell ..." How can I tell, if your voice is lovely.
I just know this, that it penetrates me
so deep it makes me tremble like a leaf
and rips me into shreds and detonates me.
What do I know about your skin, your limbs.
Just that it jolts me they belong to you,
so that for me there is no sleep and peace
till they are mine too.
Poem by Emily Dickinson because I literally started early and took my dog
and visited the sea ^^
I started Early — Took my Dog And visited the Sea
The Mermaids in the Basement
Came out to look at me And Frigates in the Upper Floor Extended Hempen Hands
Presuming Me to be a Mouse
Aground upon the Sands
But no Man moved Me till the Tide Went past my simple Shoe
And past my Apron and my Belt
And past my Bodice too
And made as He would eat me up
As wholly as a Dew
Upon a Dandelion’s Sleeve
And then I started too
And He He followed close behind I felt his Silver Heel Upon my Ankle Then my Shoes Would overflow with Pearl Until We met the Solid Town No One He seemed to know And bowing with a Mighty look
At me The Sea withdrew
Poem
by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)
“Oh,
think not I am faithful”
Oh,
think not I am faithful to a vow!
Faithless am I save to love's self alone Were you not lovely I would leave you now: After the feet of beauty fly my own Were you not still my hunger's rarest food And water ever to my wildest thirst I would desert you—think not but I would! And seek another as I sought you first But you are mobile as the veering air And all your charms more changeful than the tide Wherefore to be inconstant is no care: I have but to continue at your side So wanton, light and false, my love, are you I am most faithless when I most am true
"Weathers" by Thomas Hardy, I remembered it because it rained for the
first time yesterday while I was driving.
This is
the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I; When showers betumble the chestnut spikes, And nestlings fly; And the little brown nightingale bills his best, And they sit outside at 'The Traveller's Rest,' And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest, And citizens dream of the south and west, And so do I. This is the weather the shepherd shuns, And so do I; When beeches drip in browns and duns, And thresh and ply; And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe, And meadow rivulets overflow, And drops on gate bars hang in a row, And rooks in families homeward go, And so do I.
Poem by the one and only Sylvia Plath. Oh I just think everyone ought to
learn this poem by heart! lovely, lovely words!
“I am
vertical”
|
But I
would rather be horizontal.
I am not a
tree with my root in the soil
Sucking up
minerals and motherly love
So that
each March I may gleam into leaf,
Nor am I
the beauty of a garden bed
Attracting
my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted,
Unknowing
I must soon unpetal.
Compared
with me, a tree is immortal
And a
flower-head not tall, but more startling,
And I want
the one's longevity and the other's daring.
Tonight,
in the infinitesimal light of the stars,
The trees
and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors.
I walk
among them, but none of them are noticing.
Sometimes
I think that when I am sleeping
I must
most perfectly resemble them –
Thoughts
gone dim. It is more natural to me, lying down.
Then the
sky and I are in open conversation,
And I
shall be useful when I lie down finally:
Then the
trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.
"Two pretty eyes" by Bulgarian symbolist romantic poet
Peyo Yavorov (1878-1914)
He wrote most of his poems to two women who died before him. The first was lost to tuberculosis, the second killed herself out of jealousy. He was blamed for the death of his wife and even accused of killing her. He committed suicide (twice because the first time, the bullet blinded him) and died at the age of 36.
He wrote most of his poems to two women who died before him. The first was lost to tuberculosis, the second killed herself out of jealousy. He was blamed for the death of his wife and even accused of killing her. He committed suicide (twice because the first time, the bullet blinded him) and died at the age of 36.
Two
pretty eyes. The soul of a child.
|
|
In them
is music - light.
|
|
They
don't desire, they hold no promises inside.
|
|
My soul
- in pray,
|
|
Oh,
child,
|
|
My soul
- in pray!
|
|
The
sorrow-passions of the day
|
|
will
cover them within
|
|
- a veil
of shame and sin.
|
|
The veil
of shame and sin
|
|
won't
cover them within
|
|
by
sorrow-passions of the day.
|
|
My soul
- in pray,
|
|
Oh,
child
|
|
My soul
- in pray!
|
|
They
don't desire, they hold no promises inside.
|
|
Two
pretty eyes. ...And music-light
|
|
in
them... The soul of a child.
|
|
"My
Folly of Being" .. a poem by the Romanian Surrealist poet Ghérasim Luca.
Despair has three pairs of legs
despair
has four pairs of legs
four pairs
of light volcanic absorbent symmetrical legs
it has
five pairs of legs five symmetrical pairs
or six
pairs of light volcanic legs
seven
pairs of volcanic legs
despair
has seven or eight pairs of volcanic legs
eight
pairs of legs eight pairs of socks
eight
light forks absorbed by the legs
it has
nine forks symmetrical in its nine pairs of legs
ten pairs
of legs absorbed by its legs
in other
words eleven pairs of absorbent volcanic legs
despair
has twelve pairs of legs twelve pairs of legs
it has
thirteen pairs of legs
despair
has fourteen pairs of light volcanic legs
fifteen
fifteen pairs of legs
despair
has sixteen pairs of legs sixteen pairs of legs
despair
has seventeen pairs of legs absorbed by the legs
eighteen
pairs of legs and eighteen pairs of socks
it has
eighteen pairs of socks in the forks of its legs
in other
words nineteen pairs of legs
despair
has twenty pairs of legs
thirty
pairs of legs.
despair
doesn’t have any pairs of legs
not a
single pair of legs
absolutely
not absolutely no legs
absolutely
not a single leg
absolutely
three legs
Poem by the first Latin American and the fifth woman to ever receive
the Nobel Prize in Literature, in 1945. Hear, hear for Chilean poet Gabriela
Mistral (1889-1957)
A
crippled child
Said, “How shall I dance?”
Let your heart dance
We said.
Then the invalid said:
“How shall I sing?”
Let your heart sing
We said
Then spoke the poor dead thistle,
But I, how shall I dance?”
Let your heart fly to the wind
We said.
Then God spoke from above
“How shall I descend from the blue?”
Come dance for us here in the light
We said.
All the valley is dancing
Together under the sun,
And the heart of him who joins us not
Is turned to dust, to dust.
Said, “How shall I dance?”
Let your heart dance
We said.
Then the invalid said:
“How shall I sing?”
Let your heart sing
We said
Then spoke the poor dead thistle,
But I, how shall I dance?”
Let your heart fly to the wind
We said.
Then God spoke from above
“How shall I descend from the blue?”
Come dance for us here in the light
We said.
All the valley is dancing
Together under the sun,
And the heart of him who joins us not
Is turned to dust, to dust.
One of my most favorite poems ever: "Fearful Women" by Carolyn Kizer.
Arms
and the girl I sing - O rare
arms that are braceleted and white and bare
arms that were lovely Helen's, in whose name
Greek slaughtered Trojan. Helen was to blame.
Scape-nanny call her; wars for turf
and profit don't sound glamorous enough.
Mythologize your women! None escape.
Europe was named from an act of bestial rape:
Eponymous girl on bull-back, he intent
on scattering sperm across a continent.
Old Zeus refused to take the rap.
It's not his name in big print on the map.
But let's go back to the beginning
when sinners didn't know that they were sinning.
He, one rib short: she lived to rue it
when Adam said to God, "She made me do it."
Eve learned that learning was a dangerous thing
for her: no end of trouble would it bring.
An educated woman is a danger.
Lock up your mate! Keep a submissive stranger
like Darby's Joan, content with church and Kinder,
not like that sainted Joan, burnt to a cinder.
Whether we wield a scepter or a mop
It's clear you fear that we may get on top.
And if we do -I say it without animus-
It's not from you we learned to be magnaminous.
arms that are braceleted and white and bare
arms that were lovely Helen's, in whose name
Greek slaughtered Trojan. Helen was to blame.
Scape-nanny call her; wars for turf
and profit don't sound glamorous enough.
Mythologize your women! None escape.
Europe was named from an act of bestial rape:
Eponymous girl on bull-back, he intent
on scattering sperm across a continent.
Old Zeus refused to take the rap.
It's not his name in big print on the map.
But let's go back to the beginning
when sinners didn't know that they were sinning.
He, one rib short: she lived to rue it
when Adam said to God, "She made me do it."
Eve learned that learning was a dangerous thing
for her: no end of trouble would it bring.
An educated woman is a danger.
Lock up your mate! Keep a submissive stranger
like Darby's Joan, content with church and Kinder,
not like that sainted Joan, burnt to a cinder.
Whether we wield a scepter or a mop
It's clear you fear that we may get on top.
And if we do -I say it without animus-
It's not from you we learned to be magnaminous.
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