Komrij's Fado
Komrij's Fado
A message moving,
lifting hands shifting
through the sky
alike a boat
drifting
on a sea
of eternity.
Smell that scent,
the fragrant roses
of poetry promises
and of coming proses,
and tears
and breathless rain
for Holland's Mozes,
departure of our beloved literator and poet, columnist etc Gerrit Komrij
poem by Madrason writer
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Related quotes
Gerrit's Fado
Gerrit's Fado
Wij wensen geen applaus,
alleen maar stilte,
we leven en vergeven
versterven en vergaan
van warm totaan de kilte.
De Hypoglobus zwelt aan
een verkrampte lach
en verziltende traan.
Het zal niet Niks zijn
-wat daar verdwijnt-
al achter het Gordijn!
Madrason 14-07-2012
Naar aanleidning van het afscheid van Gerrit Komrij d.d 14-07-2012
poem by Madrason writer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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London Roses
'ROWSES, Rowses! Penny a bunch!' they tell you--
Slattern girls in Trafalgar, eager to sell you.
Roses, roses, red in the Kensington sun,
Holland Road, High Street, Bayswater, see you and smell you--
Roses of London town, red till the summer is done.
Roses, roses, locust and lilac, perfuming
West End, East End, wondrously budding and blooming
Out of the black earth, rubbed in a million hands,
Foot-trod, sweat-sour over and under, entombing
Highways of darkness, deep gutted with iron bands.
'Rowses, rowses! Penny a bunch!' they tell you,
Ruddy blooms of corruption, see you and smell you,
Born of stale earth, fallowed with squalor and tears--
North shire, south shire, none are like these, I tell you,
Roses of London perfumed with a thousand years.
poem by Willa Sibert Cather
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Butterfly Friend
Tiny gift - wrap bow
Lifting
Drifting
Lifting
Sky- high
Meadow-low
Sky-high
Lifting
Drifting
Lifting
Lifting me
Over the hedgerow
Over the rainbow
Over tomorrow
poem by Kate Williams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Why
Why poets are shy.
Shylock what's in a name.
Why do they then cry
from Yawning Depths
to Wuthering Heights.
Why do they pointy-late
in consonants and footnotes
and sketch an unsaid Why.
Rilke steered my mares,
Vroman turned me in his cell
and Komrij protected my shell.
But What I needed
Was carefully heeded
in urges to mystify.
poem by Madrason writer
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Rain Tears
Rain, tears, rain, tears,
Melding in torrential fears:
Chill of cloud; saddened eye-
In either way, a latent cry.
Rain, tears, rain, tears,
Married under sceptic jeers:
‘They'll never last.' Methinks not true, for
Either way, forever blue.
Rain, tears, rain, tears,
Simple love with lacy cares,
Their intercourse will ne'er refrain
From rain and tears and tears and rain.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
rain tears: : rain tears: : rain tears: : rain tears
: : rain tears: : rain tears: : rain tears: : rain tears
rs: : rain tears: : rain tears: : rain tears: : rain tears
ears: : rain tears: : rain tears: : rain tears: : rain tears
: tears: : rain tears: : rain tears: : rain tears: : rain tears
n: : tears: : rain tears: : rain tears: : rain tears: : rain tears
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Pick Me Up
There are too many roses down on the ground
There are too many people throwing them around
Every rose has a value unbound
So would you please pick them up from the ground?
There are too many people staring at the moon
And many forget when the roses will bloom
And when they do they'll be treated so rude
And they're sweet smell turns to no value
A rose is a wonderful thing to hold
It has a scent so sweet to the nose
It's filled with love and kindness so deep
But we don't appreciate a thing so sweet
Until it's gone and we're left all alone
Searching for one but they're already gone
It's like when too many people start cursing the rain
Waiting by the window and begging in vain
That the rain should come another day
While the rose savors the rain
Knowing that soon it will go away
But never knowing when it will come again
I said it before and I'll say it again
There are too many roses being thrown away
Broken in spirit and wasting away
But I see a few being treated as they deserve
Smelt with well closed eyes to savor it well
Appreciate a well colored rose
It has a scent so sweet to the nose
You'll never know when the rain comes no more
You never know when the roses won't grow
So throw them away and treat them so cold
You'll never find them when you need them the most.
poem by Hafeni Nghidinua
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the beginning of new life,
Poetry is in the tears of a child,
Poetry is in the warmth of mother's kiss,
Poetry is in the child's bliss,
Poetry is in the hug of a father,
Poetry is in the love of a dear,
Poetry is in the happiness of affection,
Poetry is in the pain of separation,
Poetry is in someone's loss,
Poetry is in missing someone very close.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the first rain,
Poetry is in the cultivation of first grain,
Poetry is in the first light of dawn,
Poetry is in the drops of dew o the grass of lawn,
Poetry is in the blowing of cool wind,
Poetry is in the beauty of green,
Poetry is in the twinkling star,
Poetry is in the aroma of a flower,
Poetry is in thunder and lightning,
Poetry is in the heat scorching.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is something more sweeter than sweet,
Poetry is something more closer to heart beat,
Poetry is something more than the most beautiful creation,
Poetry is something more than the depth of an ocean,
Poetry is something more higher than the blue,
Poetry is something more true,
Poetry is something more enjoyable than wine,
Poetry is something more shiner than sunshine,
Poetry is something more pure than air,
Poetry is something which is present everywhere.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poet ry is not just rhyme,
Poetry is but the voice Divine,
Poetry is not just Poetry,
Poetry frames History,
After so many lines,
Poetry still remains undefined.
Poetry...Poetry...
poem by Akash Agrawal
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The Smell Of A Woman
The smell of a woman,
When I am down there.
There's nothing on earth,
That quite can compare.
Earthy, moist, steamy, and rare,
Like tropical flowers perfuming the air.
The smell you find, at a womans core,
will make you want her, more, and more.
I can smell a woman across the street,
Way before our eyes will meet.
That delicate scent carried on the breeze,
Coming from a woman, seeking release.
The scent of a woman, when she is in heat,
You'll find yourself commonly looking for it.
And when I find it, it's a matter of time,
Till close up I smell that scent so sublime.
The smell of a woman all over my face,
The sweet scent of a woman, will have me crazed.
Don Juan Tenorio
poem by Don Juan Tenorio
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In The Air
Like fresh blossoming flowers on a spring day.
Her scent is in the air.
Like the smell of rain right before it pours down.
Her scent is in the air.
Like the aroma of a hot apple pie cooling on the window seal.
Her scent is in air.
I try to cover my nose with my shirt
but her scent seeps right through it.
It is in the air.
I try fanning it away
but the more I fan the stronger her scent lofts in the air.
I decide not to fight it anymore and I inhale her scent.
It first suffocates me but then it sustains me.
To me her scent is love and it is
In the air.
The Poetry Of Confession
THE POETRY OF CONFESSION
The poetry of confession -
The poetry of self- indulgence-
The poetry of the ‘wretch con-centered all in self’-
The poetry of moods and feelings-
Of all ideas only as they relate to the poet himself-
The poetry of desperation-
The poetry of need-
The poetry of urgency -
And serving the poet first-
Not enough of the world
Not enough of others- of other perspectives
Not formal and disciplined enough-
The poetry which is not crafted and polished
The poetry in which the need of the poet
Is more central than the quality of the poetry –
The poetry which may be too selfish to be good-
Whose moral failure makes more prominent its aesthetic flaws-
The poetry which is not so good
And not great
But quite banal and commonplace –
A poet can give his life to his poetry
And that still be nothing at all-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Am Not A Poet 2
When I feel I am really a poet
I see my flesh is poetry
My pleasure is poetry
My pains are poetry
My feelings are poetry.
Poetry protects me
Poetry teaches me
How to fight back and win.
Poetry is my freedom
Poetry is my independence
Poetry is my flag
And an anthem
Poetry is my prophet
And a messanger.
But I am not a poet
Do not read me
Burn me into ashes
Let there be a flower
From the ashes.
poem by Devil Poet
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She Asks Me How Can I Tell Rain From Tears?
we are walking on the free lane
of love
and it starts to rain
and we have no umbrella
and she stays near
my side that i can
smell the scent
of her hair
and she looks at me
and asks me to stop
awhile
and she asks me
if i can tell the difference between
her tears and the rain
and i say yes
my love
i kiss her that long under the heavy rain
and i know how salty are her tears
how deep is her sorrow
and i tell her after
your tears are so sweet.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Promises
Remember how it used to be,
Remember how you promised me,
That life would always be good,
You forget the fact you lied to me,
You locked my heart and threw the key,
I'm so misunderstood,
What to say when all the words have gone,
Promises, promises,
What to do when all our thoughts have flown,
Promises, promises,
Remember how I gave my heart,
And all at once we fell apart,
Was I supposed to forgive you,
You forgot the fact you said to me,
That we were for eternity,
You're so easy to see through,
What to say when all the words have gone,
Promises, promises,
What to do when all our thoughts have flown,
Promises, promises,
Remember that I'm over you,
And know that I will make it through,
Hope you never forget it,
The promises you made to me,
Were really lies and fantasy,
Hope you come to regret it,
What to say when all the tears have dried,
Promises, promises,
What to think when all our love has died,
Promises, promises,
The promises we used to keep have gone,
And with them all the words,
That kept us both from seeing what was wrong,
The rest is silent, What to say when all the words have gone,
Promises, promises,
What to do when all our thoughts have flown,
Promises, promises,
What to say when all the tears have dried,
Promises, promises,
What to think when all our love has died,
Promises, promises.
song performed by by Kylie Minogue
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poet Laureat
did you get his
message today
from across the
sea?
that life
is short
you need to
take a stop
along the way
and smell
the roses
in here
to be candid
the men
and women
and children
know that
too welll
and look
at them
the men
drink tuba
the women
spread
the rumors
and giggle
and laugh
and the children
still play
even in the
dark
as i dabble
in poetry
there are no
roses anymore
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Red Rain
Red rain is coming down
Red rain
Red rain is pouring down
Pouring down all over me
I am standing up at the waters edge in my dream
I cannot make a single sound as you scream
It cant be that cold, the ground is still warm to touch
This place is so quiet, sensing that storm
Red rain is coming down
Red rain
Red rain is pouring down
Pouring down all over me
Well Ive seen them buried in a sheltered place in this town
They tell you that this rain can sting, and look down
There is no blood around see no sign of pain
Hay ay ay no pain
Seeing no red at all, see no rain
Red rain is coming down
Red rain
Red rain is pouring down
Pouring down all over me
Red rain-
Putting the pressure on much harder now
To return again and again
Just let the red rain splash you
Let the rain fall on your skin
I come to you defences down
With the trust of a child
Red rain is coming down
Red rain
Red rain is pouring down
Pouring down all over me
And I cant watch any more
No more denial
Its so hard to lay down in all of this
Red rain is coming down
Red rain is pouring down
Red rain is coming down all over me
I see it
Red rain is coming down
Red rain is pouring down
Red rain is coming down all over me
Im bathing in it
Red rain coming down
Red rain is coming down
Red rain is coming down all over me
Im begging you
Red rain coming down
Red rain coming down
Red rain coming down
Red rain coming down
Over me in the red red sea
Over me
Over me
Red rain
song performed by by Peter Gabriel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fado
Fado
What do we do with Fado, this guitar sound and
guttural Portuguese voice that has a twang of
Arabia in its heart and is pure poesy.
Life, loss longing and the finality of death, is in
songs that celebrate love’s unbearable sweetness,
our tragedy and the unobtainable.
Yes, sing me a Fado, let me hear the guitar and
I will close my eyes float in a sea of melancholy
and remember you.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A New Definition Of What Is Poetry
now i think i know
what poetry is
it is
everyday
it is not
a form
but a thought
it is beyond thoughts
even
it is a stream
of emotions
and there is a boat
that sails beneath them
there is no rudder
neither sail
there are only hands
that feel
the cascading waters
feet that dangle on the
river
straining the coldness
of the eddies
there is the peace
of the sky
there is the freedom
of the drifting
of the clouds
it is foremost
a dedication and hence
it is as i am telling you
and everyday
affair
here
is the ordinariness of poetry
that most men
do not take seriously
that the world
cannot really believe
thinking that this is talent
and tact
no,
it is everyday
it is defecation
it is breathing
it is strolling
it is eating breakfast
and smoking at the park
it is sleeping and running
and holding hands
it is everyday
it is everything
it is not peculiar
or extraordinary
this is my
poetry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poet Becomes The Poetry
THE POET BECOMES THE POETRY
After years of striving to write Poetry
The Poet becomes the Poetry
No word is not poetry in him
And no silence is not the sound
his own writing makes
Wherever he is
Whatever he does
is Poetry
Mediocre or not
Real or not
Loved or not
Understood or not
The Poet is Poetry
Unable forever to escape
what he Lives.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Song of the Borderguard
The man with his lion under the shed of wars
sheds his belief as if he shed tears.
The sound of words waits -
a barbarian host at the borderline of sense.
The enamord guards desert their posts
harkening to the lion-smell of a poem
that rings in their ears.
-Dreams, a certain guard said
were never designd so
to re-arrange an empire.
Along about six o'clock I take out my guitar
and sing to a lion
who sleeps like a line of poetry
in the shed of wars.
The man shedding his belief
knows that the lion is not asleep,
does not dream, is never asleep,
is a wide-awake poem
waiting like a lover for the disrobing of the guard;
the beautil boundaries of the empire
naked, rapt round in the smell of a lion.
(The barbarians have passt over the significant phrase)
-When I was asleep,
a certain guard says,
a man shed his clothes as if he shed tears
and appeard as a lonely lion
waiting for a song under the shed-roof of wars.
I sang the song that he waited to hear,
I, the Prize-Winner, the Poet Acclaimd.
Dear, Dear, Dear, Dear, I sang,
believe, believe, believe, believe.
The shed of wars is splendid as the sky,
houses our waiting like a pure song
housing in its words the lion-smell
of the beloved disrobed.
I sang: believe, believe, believe.
I the guard because of my guitar
belive. I am the certain guard,
certain of the Beloved, certain of the lion,
certain of the Empire. I with my guitar.
Dear, Dear, Dear, Dear, I sing.
I, the Prize-Winner, the Poet on Guard.
The borderlines of sense in the morning light
are naked as a line of poetry in a war.
poem by Robert Duncan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Paradichtma (Kopland en Komrij)
Wie kan zoiets bedenken
Zeitgeist Paradigmen.
K van Kopland, Rutger,
op pagina 912 van bundel drie
der Nederlandse Poezie,
'Onder de appelboom.'
In dezelfde bundel
op pagina 956
'De Dichter! ',
door Komrij zelf beschreven.
Wie kan zoiets bedenken
Zeitgeist Paradigmen.
poem by Madrason writer
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