I could feel destiny calling.

Having reached the edge of the earth there is no horizon there.


In seeking life, I created death

With a singl step I entered a new world

The horror of truth.

There was silence again. And the merciless life ...

I cannot die and I cannot live alone.

It will all be but a brief moment

And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on.
Lord Byran


Frankenstein, merry shelly

days of wine and roses

🍁

Vitae Summa Brevis Spem Nos Vetat Incohare Longam

Ernest Dowson

The brief sum of life forbids us the hope of enduring long. –Horace

They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
Love and desire and hate:
I think they have no portion in us after
We pass the gate.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.

...

#Ernest_Dowson

Answers

I keep my answers small and keep them near;
Big questions bruised my mind but still I let
Small answers be a bulwark to my fear.

The huge abstractions I keep from the light;
Small things I handled and caressed and loved.
I let the stars assume the whole of night.

But the big answers clamoured to be moved
Into my life. Their great audacity
Shouted to be acknowledged and believed.

Even when all small answers build up to
Protection of my spirit, I still hear
Big answers striving for their overthrow

And all the great conclusions coming near.



پاسخ ها

پاسخ‌هایم کوتاه و دمِ دستی هستند
پرسش‌های بزرگ اما
ذهنم را آماجِ حملات قرار داده‌اند
و من همچنان از ترس‌هایم می‌خواهم
در پناهِ برج‌ها و باروها سنگر بگیرند.

فکر و خیالهای بزرگم را
در پستوها و دور از نور نگه داشته‌ام
هرآنچه را که خُرد است و کوچک
در آغوش می‌کشم و دوست می‌دارم
و ستارگان را حاکمانِ بی‌چون و چرای شبها می‌نامم

اما پاسخ‌های طولانی هجوم می‌آورند
استحکامات را در هم می‌کوبند
به درونِ زندگی‌ام رخنه می‌کنند
گستاخ و فریادکشان اعلامِ وجود می‌کنند
و حریف می‌طلبند.

پاسخ‌های کوتاه دروازه‌ها را می‌بندند
و به دفاع از روحِ من می‌پردازند
اما هیاهویِ پاسخ‌های بلند را می‌شنوم
که به قصدِ سرنگونی‌ام هجوم آورده‌اند
و برج و باروها را تصرف می‌کنند

و در این زمان است که تصمیمِ بزرگِ زندگی‌ام را خواهم گرفت.

#Poem
#Elizabeth_Jennings


@wordsinworlds
@ThinkinginEnglish

Though death is never talked of here,
It is more palpable and felt –
Touching the cheek or in a tear –
By being present by default.

The muffled cries, the curtains drawn,
The flowers pale before they fall –
The world itself is here brought down
To what is suffering and small.

The huge philosophies depart,
Large words slink off, like faith, like love,
The thumping of the human heart
Is reassurance here enough.

#Poem
#Elizabeth_Jennings

🍁

@wordsinworlds
@ThinkinginEnglish

A Spark Neglected Burns the House

I took my Power in my Hand—
And went against the World—
'Twas not so much as David—had—
But I—was twice as bold—

I aimed by Pebble—but Myself
Was all the one that fell—
Was it Goliath—was too large—
Or was myself—too small?

Emily Dickinson

توانم را به دست گرفتم
و علیه جهان به پا خواستم
توانم نه هم‌چند داوود،
اما شهامتم دوچندان بود.

سنگم را نشانه رفتم، اما
تنها خودم از پای افتادم
آیا جالوت بس سترگ بود
یا من خود بس خُرد؟

#poem

🍁

@wordsinworlds
@ThinkinginEnglish

O Sapientia
by Malcolm Guite

___

I cannot think unless I have been thought,
Nor can I speak unless I have been spoken.

I cannot teach except as I am taught,
Or break the bread except as I am broken.

O Mind behind the mind through which I seek,
O Light within the light by which I see,

O Word beneath the words with which I speak,
O founding, unfound Wisdom, finding me,

O sounding Song whose depth is sounding me,
O Memory of time, reminding me,

My Ground of Being, always grounding me,
My Maker’s Bounding Line, defining me,

Come, hidden Wisdom, come with all you bring,
Come to me now, disguised as everything.


#poem

🍁

@wordsinworlds
@ThinkinginEnglish

A light here required a shadow there.

The Drum
I hate that drum’s discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
And lures from cities and from fields,
To sell their liberty for charms
Of tawdry lace, and glittering arms;
And when Ambition’s voice commands,
To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands.

I hate that drum’s discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To me it talks of ravag’d plains,
And burning towns, and ruin’d swains,
And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
And widow’s tears, and orphans moans;
And all that misery’s hand bestows,
To fill the catalogue of human woes.


طبل‌ها

من از صدای ناموزونِ طبل‌ها بیزارم
مدام، مدام، مدام
برای جوانانِ کم‌فکر که با خوشحالی و لذت هورا می‌کشند،
نمایش می‌دهند!
و فریب‌خوردگان از دشتها و مزارع
دسته دسته
سر می‌رسند!
تا آزادی‌هایشان را به بهای این لذتِ پرزرق و برق و جلف
و سلاحهای پر تلالو بفروشند.
و آنگاه که صدای فرامینِ جاه‌طلبانه بلند می‌شود،
تا رژه به راه افتد،
نبرد کنند،
و به خاک و خون غلتند
آن هم در سرزمینهای بیگانگان.

من از این صدای ناموزونِ دُهُلهای بیزارم
مدام، مدام، مدام
نمایش می‌دهند!
و بر این باورم که از میدانهای نبرد،
و تاخت و تاز حرف می‌زنند،

و سوزاندنِ شهرها و کتابها
و ویران نمودنِ کلبه‌های جوانانِ روستاییِ عاشق
و اندام‌های خُردشده، و ناله‌های آخرین نفس‌های انسانها
و اشکهای بیوه‌ها و عزای یتیمان
و تمامیِ این بدبختی‌ها ارزانی می‌شود،

تا اندوه و پریشانیِ انسان رقم بخورد.

#جنگ_و_بمباران
#جان_اسکات
#شعر_نو



🍁

@wordsinworlds
@ThinkinginEnglish

a mind that does not resist is the one that stopped thinking.
...

Cleanliness is next to Godliness

To travel far, there is no better ship than a book.

Emily Dickenson

A Psalm of Life


What The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
   Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
   And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
   And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
   Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
   Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
   Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
   And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
   Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,
   In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
   Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
   Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,— act in the living Present!
   Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
   We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
   Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
   Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
   Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
   With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
   Learn to labor and to wait.

#Henry_Wadsworth_Longfellow
#Poetry
#poem

🍁

@wordsinworlds
@ThinkinginEnglish

The night is darkening round me,

Emily Brontë

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me,
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow;
The storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go
...

Up-Hill

🍁

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come

🍁

an allegorical dialogue about life's hardships, the journey of faith, and death as a welcome rest


🍁

#Christina_Rossetti
#uphill
#poetry
#poem

Dream Pedlery


If there were dreams to sell,
What would you buy?
Some cost a passing bell;
Some a light sigh,
That shakes from Life’s fresh crown
Only a rose-leaf down.
If there were dreams to sell,
Merry and sad to tell,
And the crier rang the bell,
What would you buy?

A cottage lone and still,
With bowers nigh,
Shadowy, my woes to still,
Until I die.
Such pearls from Life’s fresh crown
Fain would I shake me down.
Were dreams to have at will,
This would best heal my ill,
This would I buy.

But there were dreams to sell
Ill didst thou buy;
Life is a dream, they tell,
Waking, to die.
Dreaming a dream to prize,
Is wishing ghosts to rise;
And if I had the spell
To call the buried well,
Which one should I?

If there are ghosts to raise,
What shall I call,
Out of hell’s murky haze,
Heaven’s blue pall?
Raise my loved long-lost boy,
To lead me to his joy.–
There are no ghosts to raise;
Out of death lead no ways;
Vain is the call.

Know’st thou not ghosts to sue,
No love thou hast.
Else lie, as I will do,
And breathe thy last.
So out of Life’s fresh crown
Fall like a rose-leaf down.
Thus are the ghosts to woo;
Thus are all dreams made true,
Ever to last!

— Thomas Lovell Beddoes

Ode to the West Wind

By Percy Bysshe Shelley

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear!

II
Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine aëry surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh hear!

III
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: oh hear!

IV
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seem'd a vision; I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

V
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like wither'd leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?



#poem
#poetry

🍁

@wordsinworlds
@ThinkinginEnglish

The Night Has a Thousand Eyes

🍁

The night has a thousand eyes,
And the day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one:
Yet the light of a whole life dies
When love is done.

🍁

#poem
#poetry
#Francis_William_Bourdillon


🍁

@wordsinworlds
@ThinkinginEnglish

What is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.
2 CORINTHIANS 4:18

King Baldwin IV: Come forward. I am glad to meet Godfrey's son. He was one of my greatest teachers. He was there when, playing with the other boys, my arm was cut. It was he, not my father's physicians, who noticed that I felt no pain. He wept when he gave my father the news... that I am a leper. The Saracens say that this disease is God's vengence against the vanity of our kingdom. As wretched as I am, these Arabs believe that the chastisement that awaits me in hell is far more severe and lasting. If that's true, I call it unfair. Come. Sit.
[they sit down on opposite sides of a chessboard]

King Baldwin IV: Do you play?

Balian of Ibelin: No.

King Baldwin IV: The whole world is in chess. Any move can be the death of you. Do anything except remain where you started, and you can't be sure of your end. Were you sure of your end once?

Balian of Ibelin: I was.

King Baldwin IV: What was it?

Balian of Ibelin: To be buried a hundred yards from where I was born.

King Baldwin IV: And now?

Balian of Ibelin: Now I sit in Jerusalem, and look upon a king.

King Baldwin IV: [Baldwin chuckles] When I was sixteen, I won a great victory. I felt in that moment I would live to be a hundred. Now I know I shall not see thirty. None of us know our end, really, or what hand will guide us there. A king may move a man, a father may claim a son, but that man can also move himself, and only then does that man truly begin his own game. Remember that howsoever you are played or by whom, your soul is in your keeping alone, even though those who presume to play you be kings or men of power. When you stand before God, you cannot say, "But I was told by others to do thus," or that virtue was not convenient at the time. This will not suffice. Remember that.

Balian of Ibelin: I will