Gün bitti. Ağaçta neşe söndü.
I overflow (a poetic joke)
Here I stand,
A majestic cascade,
In my hand,
A rose about to fade,
It was my friend,
Must rescue her from the dead,
I overflowed and killed it instead.
Sayfa 75 - Liu Yi PublishingKitabı okudu
all fair's in love and poetry
Hayatında başarısızlığa uğramak şiire giriş yapmaktır – yeteneğin desteği olmadan.
Idly sipping some tea staring at an azure sky,
As my thoughts wandered to you, lips gently sighed,
A handful of sweet songs must be buried for a long while,
Wondering can I ever witness your smile?
Wondering can you ever see this poetry smile?
Sayfa 11 - Liu Yi PublishingKitabı okudu
"All beautiful poetry is an act of resistance."
Sayfa 119 - archipelago books, journal, translated from the Arabic by Catherine Cobham
"The rhythm, the rhythm. Poetry is defined by its rhythm."
Sayfa 101 - archipelago books, journal, translated from the Arabic by Catherine Cobham
She is there—Venus—but without furs—No, this time it is merely the widow—and yet—Venus-oh, what a woman!
As she stands there in her light white morning gown, looking at me, her slight figure seems full of poetry and grace. She is neither large, nor small; her head is alluring, piquant—in the sense of the period of the French marquises —rather than formally beautiful. What enchantment and softness, what roguish charm play about her none too small mouth! Her skin is so infinitely delicate, that the blue veins show through everywhere; even through the muslin covering her arms and bosom. How abundant her red hair-it is red, not blonde or golden-yellow—how diabolically and yet tenderly it plays around her neck! Now her eyes meet mine like green lightnings—they are green, these eyes of hers, whose power is so indescribable—green, but as are precious stones, or deep unfathomable mountain lakes.
She observes my confusion, which has even made me discourteous, for I have remained seated and still have my cap on my head.
She smiles roguishly.
Seeing small pieces of a larger jigsaw puzzle in isolation, no matter how hi-def the picture, is insufficient to grapple with humanity's great- est challenges. We have long known the laws of thermodynamics, but struggle to predict the spread of a forest fire. We know how cells work, but can't predict the poetry that will be written by a human made up of them. The frog's-eye view of individual parts is not enough. A healthy ecosystem needs biodiversity.
Even now, even in endeavors that engender specialization unprece- dented in history, there are beacons of breadth. Individuals who live by historian Arnold Toynbee's words that "no tool is omnicompetent. There is no such thing as a master-key that will unlock all doors." Rather than wielding a single tool, they have managed to collect and protect an entire toolshed, and they show the power of range in a hyper- specialized world.
Sayfa 267Kitabı okudu
"However, you have to know how to wake up. Waking up is when the real arises from the imaginary ina revised version, when poetry returns safely from the heavenly realms of elevated language to an earth that doesn't resemble its poetic image."
Sayfa 28 - archipelago books, journal, translated from the Arabic by Catherine Cobham
Enter the players. There were seven of us then, seven bright young things with wide precious futures ahead of us, though we saw no farther than the books in front of our faces. We were always surrounded by books and words and poetry, all the fierce passions of the world bound in leather and vellum. (I blame this in part for what happened.)
Scene 1Kitabı okuyor
My girl fell for this man not once but twice
He was beautiful. Inhuman. A warrior angel with blue eyes and golden
hair and a face that made Evangeline think that writing poetry should be her
new hobby. He almost appeared to be glowing. It made her wonder if he
was right, if maybe she really was half dead and he was the angel taking her
to heaven.
"The pure, honest soul of hers that longs for poetry, freedom, and color in her life
matches mine enough to mean she cares more about me than the money or
the pleasure."
We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of human race and the human race is filled with passion.
