Posts Tagged ‘poem’


Happy Mother’s day !!!!

* All day I think about it , then at night I say it :

Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing ?

I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.
This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I’ll be completely sober. Meanwhile,
I’m like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?
Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn’t come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way.
Whoever brought me here, will have to take me home.
This poetry. I never know what I’m going to say.
I don’t plan it.
When I’m outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.*


Thanks  !!!


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  • Cand ploua ,                     
  • verdele crud
  • se aduna
  • din frunze
  • si se limpezeste
  • intr-o noua apa
  • verdele ud.
  • Se ridica
  • in nori,
  • plage
  • si apoi
  • se risipeste
  • in lacrimi !
  • picaturi de verde
  • tare,
  • inghetate
  • se lovesc de cer
  • se sparg in ploaie marunta.
  • Verdele umple cerul
  • si ochii
  • arunca’n soare
  • si’n  pietre
  • si’n zile lungi
  • si apoi cade pe frunze….
  • verdele ud…
  • j
  • http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xYqcMOKF4qM&feature=related

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Edgar Allan Poe ‘ s birthday is always cause for weirdness – like strange black-clad figure who leaves roses and cognac at his tomb , but this  year , he turned 200 , and things are  getting more  intense .          exh-poe-manet

One hundred sixty years ago, the beleaguered, impoverished Poe was found, delirious and in distress outside a Baltimore tavern. He was never coherent enough to explain what had befallen him since leaving Richmond, Va., a week earlier. He spent four days in a hospital before he died at age 40.

For many writers and artists living  in the latter part of the 19th century , Edgar Allan Poe was must-read . Poe ‘s storytalling , dark themes and literary vision so intriqued Paul Gauguin , Odilon Redon , Edouard Manet , Henri Matisse , and other that they mined the American writer’s repertoire for inspiration for their own work  . They were inspired by Poe’s chilling and unforgettable tales . Poe’s impact on them and the  literary themes : love and loss , fear and terror , madness and obsession , from “The Raven ”  , “The Black Cat ” , ” The Tell- Tale Heart ” ,”The Pit and The Pendulum”

For Edgar Allan Poe, 2009 has been a better year than 1849. After dozens of events in several cities to mark the 200th anniversary of his birth, he’s about to get the grand funeral that a writer of his stature should have received when he died .in memoria ” Edgar , I haven’t forgotten You ”

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  • Tinjesti sa fii la fel.
  • Si fiecare se  vede-n ochii celuilalt
  • Altfel
  • Doar in ochii mei sunteti
  • La fel
  • Dragii mei baieti
  • Barbati
  • Love4ever !
  • mom

 from Tudor&Andrei with love !!

Cuvintele pier in umbra gestului ! Copilul meu drag , sa fii aparat de  toate relele acolo unde esti !!! Love4ever !!! mom

”  ….doar pentru ochiul strain, toate acestea ar fi poate dantele la perdeaua de miraj alcalin trasa numai peste stele…”


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hpim1177.jpg Numai aur si miere, October, a zabovit pana la uitare . Indian summer .  Aroma, belsug, culoare, funigei, veverite grasune, lene  , visare , toate   indesate in  cornul abundentei !

Spranceana  neagra a  norului a aparut pe neasteptate  , impins de  vijelia ce a  desbracat copacii de culoare si a gonit frunzele in bejanie.

E prima seara cand  fac focul in camin . Aroma trandava a caldurii ma aseaza in  ganduri . Pun pe camin o fotografie mica   abia sosita .  Ovalul ramei ,delicat, incadreaza un chip ingeresc .

Mi-am  cuibarit fiinta intre perinele  bosumflate ale batrinului fotoliu, ce-mi recunoaste forma , asa cum sufletul , ca un lichid, ia forma  trupului care-l contine…..

Ochii urmaresc cand  limbile jucause ale focului, cand mica  fotografie abia aparuta … nu stiu unde sa se opreasca . Doar  mainile, cuminti si fermecatoare, si-au oprit   zborul ca doua pasari obosite in  afganul ce-l impletesc cu  drag . N-au uitat arta impletitului , doar zabovesc un moment in   albul – roz al impletiturii si -si  spun…. vino tu, miracol al vietii…

Miracole  cu mult mai mari  ce vor sa vina… afganul  o sa incalzeasca piciorusele  acelui chip  de inger . In Germany nu  este ” indian summer”…  Cele doua  pasari obosite isi revin din  odihna…nu, n-au uitat arta impletitului – privesc la focul ce trozneste molcom in camin, incalzindu-mi sufletul  !

Sunt  binecuvantata ! de o saptamana sunt bunica !

🙂 j.


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