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All Through The Day At My Machine

All through the day at my machine
There still keeps going
A strange little tune through heart and head
As I sit sewing:
'There is a child in Hungary,
A child I love in Hungary'
The words come flowing.
When I am walking home at night
That song comes after,
And under the trees in holiday time
Or hearing laughter:
'I have a son in Hungary,
My little son in Hungary'
Comes following after.

poem by Lesbia Harford
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Self-Portrait

Lucian Blaga is as mute as a swan.
In his homeland
a creature’s snow stands for the word.
His spirit is in quest
in age-old mute quest
since all times
and up to the ultimate bounds, without rest.
He is in quest of the water of which the rainbow drinks.
He is in quest of the water
of which the rainbow
drinks its beauty and non-being.

poem by Lucian Blaga from Unsuspected Steps (1943), translated by Dan Duţescu
Added by Dan Costinaş
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Oh! rain

Oh! rain you rained rained rained
while going to movie
Oh! rain you rained rained rained
while playing games
Oh! rain you rained rained rained
while going to hotel
Oh! rain you rained rained rained
while going to picnic
Oh! rain you rained rained rained
wiped away the happiest movements

poem by Garimella Saivineeth
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The true poet is all the time a visionary and whether with friends or not, as much alone as a man on his death bed.

classic quote by William Butler Yeats
Added by Dan Costinaş
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Watching a Child Grow! ! ! ! !

Baby

Like flowers reaching for Sun, baby sucks ma's breast.
Petals open kissed by light, baby smiles content.
Dew drops evaporate, toddler plays on grass.
Butterflies flirt with flowers, he gurgles and laughs...

Kid

Whole creation is alive, youthful and so bright.
Tiny necks peep out of shell, ready for maiden flight.
Ma stands with Tiffin at gate, child hops into van.
Soon the van goes out of sight, things go well as planned.

Youth

Birds twittering day long, youth strums on guitar.
Dusk falls and shadows lengthen, a girl comes in car.
A magical hour, twilight... Walking hand in hand,
Light breeze caresses the leaves, ma smiles as she stands.

[...] Read more

poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Sailor's Mourner

"Gawd!" said a gal o' the Barbary Coast —
She was dancin' wi' me —
"Is it true, lad, that Larry, young Larry, was lost
From his ship out at sea?"

An' I says to her, "Aye! 'Tis true sure enough
That poor Larry was drowned."
An' "Gawd," said the gal o' the Coast, "but it's tough!
An' the poor boy home-bound!"

The fiddles they played on the Barbary shore
An' the dancers' feet flew,
An' "Gawd," said the gal, the young Barbary whore
"'Tis too bad that it's true!"

She trembled her lip, an' she dropped a salt tear
On paint an' on powder;
An' the crimps they came round wi' the foam on the beer,
An' the laughter grew louder.

[...] Read more

poem by Bill Adams from Wind in the Topsails (1931)
Added by Dan Costinaş
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To a Snail

If "compression is the first grace of style,"
you have it. Contractility is a virtue
as modesty is a virtue.
It is not the acquisition of any one thing
that is able to adorn,
or the incidental quality that occurs
as a concomitant of something well said,
that we value in style,
but the principle that is hidden:
in the absence of feet, "a method of conclusions";
"a knowledge of principles,"
in the curious phenomenon of your occipital horn.

poem by Marianne Moore
Added by Dan Costinaş
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