Crone/Hron
Crone
A big watchmaker
Clocked endlessness
Within the circle of his own limits
Crone
A big watchmaker
Never sharpened his own hands
Crone
A big watchmaker
Repeatedly cleaned
His own mechanisms
Crone
A big watchmaker
Stood at the entrance
Self-determined
Self-encaged
Hron
Veliki casovnicar
Otkucavao je beskraj
U krugu svojih granica
Hron
Velki casovnicar
Nikada nije ostrio
Svoje kazaljke
Hron
Veliki casovnicar
Stajao je na ulazu
Samim sobom omedjen
Samim sobom odredjen
2009.
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Related quotes
Chrone
Chrone
A big watchmaker
Clocked endlessness
Within the circle of his own limits
Chrone
A big watchmaker
Never sharpened his own hands
Chrone
A big watchmaker
Repeatedly cleaned
His own mechanisms
Chrone
A big watchmaker
Stood at the entrance
Self-determined
Self-encaged
Hron
Veliki casovnicar
Otkucavao je beskraj
U krugu svojih granica
Hron
Velki casovnicar
Nikada nije ostrio
Svoje kazaljke
Hron
Veliki casovnicar
Stajao je na ulazu
Samim sobom omedjen
Samim sobom odredjen
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Trinity
The crone presides, the mother serves.
The maiden’s waiting in the wings,
each holds she place that she deserves.
The Moon Goddess still pulls the strings.
The fates decide the time for change
then each moves on to higher things
The power structures re arrange.
The aged crone has earned her wings.
The mother then becomes the crone,
the maiden takes the mothers place.
The elders meet to choose the one.
The new maiden who will replace.
The maiden who is now mature.
She is selected carefully.
They must be absolutely sure.
She understands she is to be
untouched a virgin set apart
There is so much she needs to learn
enough to daunt the stoutest heart.
It is an honour she must earn.
The mother maiden and the crone.
Represent the Moon Goddess,
they act together as though one.
The Goddess’ wishes to express.
Each of them must serve their turn
as maiden, mother then as crone
and from their predecessor learn.
The secrets hitherto unknown.
26-Dec-07
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A boy And Watchmaker
This watch my father did on me bestow,
A golden one it is, but 'twill not go,
Unless it be at an uncertainty:
But as good none as one to tell a lie.
When 'tis high day my hand will stand at nine;
I think there's no man's watch so bad as mine.
Sometimes 'tis sullen, 'twill not go at all,
And yet 'twas never broke nor had a fall.
Watchmaker.
Your watch, though it be good, through want of skill
May fail to do according to your will.
Suppose the balance, wheels, and springs be good,
And all things else, unless you understood
To manage it, as watches ought to be,
Your watch will still be at uncertainty.
Come, tell me, do you keep it from the dust,
Yea, wind it also duly up you must?
Take heed, too, that you do not strain the spring;
You must be circumspect in every thing,
Or else your watch, were it as good again,
Would not with time and tide you entertain.
Comparison.
This boy an emblem is of a convert,
His watch of the work of grace within his heart,
The watchmaker is Jesus Christ our Lord,
His counsel, the directions of his Word;
Then convert, if thy heart be out of frame,
Of this watchmaker learn to mend the same.
Do not lay ope' thy heart to worldly dust,
Nor let thy graces over-grow with rust,
Be oft' renewed in the' spirit of thy mind,
Or else uncertain thou thy watch wilt find.
poem by John Bunyan
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The world embarrasses me, and I cannot dream that this watch exists and has no watchmaker.
Young Man's Song
'She will change,' I cried.
'Into a withered crone.'
The heart in my side,
That so still had lain,
In noble rage replied
And beat upon the bone:
'Uplift those eyes and throw
Those glances unafraid:
She would as bravely show
Did all the fabric fade;
No withered crone I saw
Before the world was made.'
Abashed by that report,
For the heart cannot lie,
I knelt in the dirt.
And all shall bend the knee
To my offended heart
Until it pardon me.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Between the amateur and the professional... there is a difference not only in degree but in kind. The skillful man is, within the function of his skill, a different psychological organization... A tennis player or a watchmaker or an airplane pilot is an automatism but he is also criticism and wisdom.
quote by Bernard De Voto
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Everything, everything, everything! I want to know everything. I want the privilege of being a crone.
quote by Susan Powter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What a path cannot say (Nafaka)
Eternity will
All of us there
Take a long rest of all the thoughts
What treetops cry will settle in a breath
Pass away alongide myself
Everything there
Take a long rest of all the thoughts
sve sto staza srca ne moze da kaze
reci ce vjecnost
svi tamo
na veliki odmor svih misli
sve sto placu krosnje stace u dah
nestati zajedno samnom
sve tamo na veliki odmor
svih misli
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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To a downfallen rose
When I laid aside the verses of Mimnermus,
I lived a life of canned heat and raw hands,
alone, not far from my body did I wander,
walked with a hope of a sudden dreamy forest of gold.
O rose, downfallen, bend your huge vegetic back;
eye down the imposter sun...in winter dream
sulk your rosefamed head into the bile of golden giant,
ah, rose, augment the rose further still!
whence upon that self-created dive in Eden
you blossomed where the Watchmaker of Nothingness
lulled,
your birth did cause bits of smashed night to pop,
causing my dreamy forest to unfold.
Yes, and the Watchmaker, his wheely-flesh
and jewelled-bones spoiled as he awoke,
and in the face of your Somethingness, he fled
waving oblivious monks in his unwinded hands.
The sun cannot see upheaved spatics, the tennis of Venus
and the court of Mars sing the big lie of the sun,
ah, faraway ball of fur, sponge up the elements;
make clear the trees and the mountains of the earth,
arise and turn away from the vast fixedness.
Rose! Rose! my tinhorneared rose!
Rose is my visionic eyehand of all Mysticdom
Rose is my wise chair of bombed houses
Rose is my patient electric eyes, eyes, eyes, eyes,
Rose is my festive jowl,
Dali Lama Grand Vicar Glorious Caesar rose!
When I hear the rose scream
I gather all the failure experiments of an anatomical empire
and, with some chemical dream, discover
the hateful law of the earth and sun, and the screaming
rose between.
poem by Gregory Corso
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Like a night without a day/Kao noc bez dana
Like a night without a day
Like a shadow of time
Cut with a momentous blade
There wanders the breath
Like a bud without a flower
The curse upon Vesna thrown
The whirls of dust
The circles of the world
Spinned by Chrone
Crownless dethroned throne
Kao noc bez dana
Ko sjena vremena
Na oštrici trena zaklana
Luta luta dah
Ko pupolj bez cvijeta
Nad Vesnom bacena kletva
Vrtložni prah
Krugove svemira okrece Hron
Sa krune svijeta svrgnut tron
2011.
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Poverty crone
Dancing with open belly
Along with croon.
haiku by Abdul Wahab
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A dropp of ocean
...will never learn the hands that have swum it
unless it is taught tears to cry
kap okeana nikada nece nauciti ruke koje su ga preplivale
osim ako ga ne naucimo da place
C circle Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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I Understood Your Question
Thinking of todays' poets.
And their approach and quality.
Who among them would you choose,
As your favorites.
'Hmmm...
Paul Bunyan comes to mind.
I enjoy the Wright Brothers.
Benjamin Banneker was brilliant.
Did you know he was also a watchmaker too?
And that's not to take anything away,
From Thomas Edison.
He put the 'gee' in genius.'
You did not name one of today's poets.
In fact...
You did not name one poet.
'I know that.
And guess what?
I understood your question.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I (Under) Stood There
I stood there
understood there
a moment
of writing butterflies
onto the grass bladed skin
forever gone
the remnants patched the sadness
the scar upon the face of an early rise
when no one heard
how flowers were screaming
at many coloured people
with many shaded talks
just passing by
with multiple eyes
resting on some play else
till they found
a grasshopper way behind
the starting line of all their races
who merely hopped and made no traces
with too many hands clocked
unclocking the hands of time
already strangling their idols
was that Diana they were hunting
who weaved the black carpet for a white horse
tame at her hand the bow and arrow
resting at the side of Crone
was that Aphrodite they raped
among the white foams of the black waters
who cried red tears for the blue of the sky
where Zeus powerless dwelled
looking for God to pray to
watching me stand there
my moment as short as a butterfly's life
forever in love with a grasshoppers silence
we ate together
neatly spun webs of times
and still i wonder if this moment...
was it mine
the starting line of all their races
was that I
who merely hopped and made no traces
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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All the things that brought us home/Sve ono sto nas je dovelo kuci
All the things that brought us home
We took them for awhile
Gently to the heart
Gently to the breast
To feed the hungry sky
All days that brought us here
Passages of time
We took them for not more
Than a living moment
And now we glisten in the heart of Crone
Beauty beat and pulse alone
Sve ono što nas je dovelo kuci
Na nako vrijeme uzesmo
Blago pri scru
Blago na grudi
Gladno nebo da hranimo
Sve dane što nas doniješe ovdje
Prolaze vremenog
Ne uzesmo više
No živi tren
I sad smo u srcu Hrona sjaj
Ljepote bilo samotan otkucaj
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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THE POVERTY CRONE (a short poem)
Above the heads is the bright round moon
Is she busy now with honey moon?
Under her is the clumsy poverty crone
Dancing naked empty belly with a croon
Will she come down to us, to stop her soon?
poem by Abdul Wahab
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Cyclic dance of the entrance (Nafaka)
a silk made fabric beyond the arch
like a scarf made of stars
the smell of the snow through October and the wind
the street I live in smells of bad perfume
the house I live carries a damp smell
the treetops my birds live in
shoke all of their nests
will there remain any trace
the graves will sing the way the cradles can?
a silk made fabric beyond the arch
like a scarf made of stars
will be torn by night?
the moon will start dancing beyond the arch
the dance of love and hate
pain and bliss
cyclic dance of the entrance
nad svodom tkanina svilena
ko marama satkana od zvijezda
brise pred sobom
miris snijega kroz oktobar i vjetar
brise pred sobom
ulicu u kojoj zivim mirise na lose parfeme
brise pred sobom
kucu u kojoj stanujem mirise na memle
krosnje u kojima stanuju moje ptice
stresle su sva gnijezda
dali ce ostati tragovi
dali ce propjevati grobovi
kao sto placu kolijevke
nad svodom tkanina svilena
ko marama satkana od zvijezda
pocijepace je noc
nad svodom vec zaigra Mjesec
vjecnu igru ljubavi i mrznje
radosti i bola
ciklicni ples ulaska
vjecnu dramu ulaska
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Last night
Last night I asked the drop
what nobody had dared to ask before
I said
come on, isn't it time you washed my face
isn't it time you stopped falling in tears
isn't it time for me to drink you
isn't it time for you to touch me
isn't it time for me to see the world within you
come on, what are you waiting for
why don't you finally fall down
that was the rage of a dead chicken
Sinoc sam rekla kaplji
sto joj niko ranije nije smio reci
rekla sam
hajde, nije li vrijeme da me umijes
nije li vrijeme da suzom prestanes
nije li vrijeme da te popijem
nije li vrijeme da dotaknes
nije li vrijeme da u tebi sagledam svijet
hajde sta cekas
zasto vec jednom prosto ne kanes
bio je to bijes mrtvog pileta
Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Calender Day 9
The living and the dead
They want answers beyond the measures of their time
And times easily crash into each other's spaces
All knowledge is there waiting to be discovered revealed
Poured into half empty hands of the mind and the mind of power
Whose credibility rests on the implements of moral codes
Inscribed into now malevolent signs of philosophia prima
Of the doors closing down
Whose vulnerability lies in the whole world of dreams
And hopes hopelessly lost on a broken brow
I fear the world will be really dropped on head
The way it drops its subjects once they're too hot to touch
I once had this little book of colours
The leafs are still turning my life
Never really let me in
My ancestors were there denied as well
And I was sad
You're too endless for its pages
So said the dead
You're too tainted for its hues
Thus spake the living
But the book remained open
At each page a Crone touched sage
Touched the hand of a virgin maid
Forever turning the bread of embrace
As yellow as the sunset in the cornfield
As green as immaculate trees
As red as the ribbons in the plaits
Eventually torn in a rainbow wind
Where within I spinned
All answers by the graveyard
Slipping my own mind
Slipping my own tongue
Both tied in the beg of silence
The living were crying
The dead were laughing
And in every sadness the song of silence
Besieged the fortresses and crossed the motes
Burning the rivers behind
To find a dwelling in the Hypnos sign
Resting its smile by the bay sun soil
A mosaic placed in the heart of a dream
Where Resona smiles a young lip smile
My smile resting within
From behind the wired
Encaged in the monument of time.
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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U what
United Nations successfully nationize their unions.
Ujedinjene Nacije uspjesno nacionisu svoje unije.
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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