Poetry

[starfielderParticipant]

Last Night as I was Sleeping

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt, – marvelous error ! –
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aquaduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt – marvelous error ! –
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt – marvelous error! –
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.

Last night as I slept,
I dreamt – marvelous error! –
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.

Antonio Machado

[David HaywardKeymaster]

nice. i like it.

[Anonymous]

Great poem! Thanks Starfielder!

[Anonymous]

http://www.creatinganewthing.blogspot.com

I couldn’t figure out how to copy from my blog!  Peggy

[Violet-MoonParticipant]

Thank you for posting.  I read it twice.  It brought tears to my eyes.  I love the visuals.

[AndreasParticipant]

I love poetry, here’s a small, simple one with a profound message that I relate to a lot these days:

Whatever happens. Whatever
what is is is what
I want. Only that. But that.

– Galway Kinnell, “Prayer”

[David HaywardKeymaster]

I love poetry too. And I love that. Beautiful!
Almost like a koan.

[AndreasParticipant]

Pilgrimages by R.S. Thomas.

There is an island there is no going
to but in a small boat, the way
the saints went, travelling the gallery
of the frightened faces of
the long-drowned, munching the gravel
of its beaches. So I have gone
up the salt lane to the building
with the stone altar, and the candles
gone out, and kneeled and lifted
my eyes to the furious gargoyle
of the owl that is like a god
gone small and resentful. There
is no body in the stained window
of the sky now. Am I too late?
Were they too late also, those
first pilgrims? He is such a fast
God, always before us, and
leaving as we arrive.

There are those here
not given to prayer, whose office
is the blank sea that they say daily.
What they listen to is not
hymns, but the slow chemistry of the soil,
that turns saints’ bones into dust,
dust to an irritant of the nostril.

There is no time on this island.
The swinging pendulum of the tide
has no clock; the events
are dateless. These people are not
late or soon; they are just
here, with only the one question
to ask, which life answers
by being in them. It is I
who ask. Was the pilgrimage
I made to come to my own
self, to learn that, in times
like these, and for one like me,
God will never be plain and
out there, but dark rather, and
inexplicable, as though he were in here?

[Author]

Posts