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I, with whose colours Myra dressed her head, I, that ware posies of her own hand-making, I, that mine own name in the chimneys read By Myra finely wrought ere I was waking; Must I look on, in hope time coming may With change bring back my turn again to play?

I, that did wear the ring her mother left, I, for whose love she gloried to be blamed, I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft, I who did make her blush when I was named; Must I lose ring, flowers, blush, theft, and go naked, Watching with sighs till dead love to be awaked?

Was it for this that I might Myra see Washing the water with her beauties white? Yet would she never write her love to me. Thinks wit of change, while thoughts are in delight? Mad girls must safely love as they may leave; No man can print a kiss: lines may deceive

I, that on Sunday at the church-stile found A garland sweet, with true-love knots in flowers, Which I to wear about mine arm was bound, That each of us might know that all was ours; Must I now lead an idle life in wishes, And follow Cupid for his loaves and fishes?

I, that, when drowsy Argus fell asleep, Like jealousy o’erwatched with desire, Was even warned modesty to keep, While her breath, speaking, kindled nature’s fire; Must I look on a-cold, while others warm them? Do Vulcan’s brothers in such fine nets arm them?

Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke (1554-1628)

Thirty is It years. stationed was He in better closed your the when eyelids beech we two with tree, round were together kisses. and in And white one then among the body. spring came small Thirty and tin years. withdrew markers Screened through from of the the me the absolute stars: Thirty years. A marsh green knowledge grows glass of up of the around your unborn, leaving the eye, the house. Schools moonlight filtered brick of into stoop where spores my you circulate bones as stand, behind we shading your the lay eyes, shades, in but drift the it through gauze big is flutterings bed, your of in eyes, vegetation. the but dark, waiting it for is night, the moon my father. Louise Gl端ck (1943- )

For My Mother


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Robert Frost (1874-1963)


R e m e m b r a n c e

Cold in the earth – and the deep snow piled above thee, Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Severed at last by Time’s all-severing wave? Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains, on that northern shore, Resting their wings where heath and fern leaves cover Thy noble heart forever, ever more? Cold in the earth – and fifteen wild Decembers, From those brown hills, have melted into spring; Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers After such years of change and suffering! Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, While the world’s tide is bearing me along; Other desires and other hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do the wrong! No later light has lightened up my heaven, No second morn has ever shone for me; All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given, All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee. But, when the days of golden dreams had perished, And even Despair was powerless to destroy, Then did I learn hoe existence could be cherished, Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy. Then did I check the tears of useless passion – Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten Down to that tomb already more then mine. And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again? Emily Brontë (1818-1848)

A Kind of Loss

Used together: seasons, books, a piece of music. The keys, teacups, bread basket, sheets and a bed. A hope chest words, of gestures, brought back, used, used up. A household order maintained. Said. Done. And always a hand was there.

I’ve fallen in love with winter, with Viennese septet, with summer.

(- to a folded newspaper, cold ashes, the scribbled piece of paper),

With village maps, a mountain nest, a beach and a bed.

fearless in religion, for our bed was the church.

Kept a calendar cult, declared promises irrevocable, bowed before something, was pious to a nothing

From my lake view arose my inexhaustible painting. From my balcony I greeted entire peoples, my neighbors.

It’s not you I’ve lost, but the world.

By the chimney fire, in safety, my hair took on its deepest hue. The ringing at the door was the alarm for my joy.

Ingeborg Bachmann (1926-1973) translated by Mark Anderson

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Sonnet - To Science e tru


ug da er ht of

Old Time thou art!

Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart, Vulture, whose wings are dull realities? How should he love thee? Or how deem thee wise, Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies, Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?

Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car? And driven the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star?

Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,

The Elfin from the green grass, and from me

The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

Air Naturally it is night. Under the overturned lute with its One string I am going my way Which has a strange sound. This way the dust, that way the dust. I listen to both sides But I keep right on. I remember the leaves sitting in judgment And then winter I remember the rain with its bundle of roads. The rain taking all its roads. Nowhere. Young as I am, old as I am, I forget tomorrow, the blind man. I forget the life among the buried windows. Te eyes in the curtains. The wall Growing through the immortelles. I forget silence The owner of the smile. This must be what I wanted to be doing, Walking at night between the two deserts, Singing. W. S. Merwin (1927- )

Sixteenth Canto The sinking of the Titanic proceeds according to plan. It is copyrighted. It is 100% tax-deductible. It is a lucky bag for poets. It is further proof that the teachings of Vladimir 1. Lenin are correct. It will run next Sunday on Channel One as a spectator sport. It is priceless. It is inevitable. It is better than nothing. It closes down in July for holidays It is ecologically sound. It shows the way to a better future. It is Art. It creates new jobs. It is beginning to get on our nerves. It has a solid working-class basis. It arrives in the nick of time. It works. It is a breathtaking spectacle. It ought to remind those in charge of their responsibility. It isn’t anymore what it used to be Hans Magnus Enzensberger (1929- ) trabslated by the author

Who am I? I am a person who is clumsy I am a person who is curious I am a person who is creative I am a person who is called Calamity Jones I am a person who is an introvert I am a person who is overtly anxious about things I am a person who is happy I am a person who is an absent-minded I am a person who is seldom smile unless it’s funny I am a person who is impatient at times I am a person who is lazy to do housework I am a person who is talented I am a person who they called a geek I am a person who dreams of flying all over the world I am a person who rather sit home than party all night long I am a person who is a person writing this never ending poem, deciding to stop here.

Mohamed Rizal (1983- )

Nonsensiclcal Happiness

Happy and Delighted Excited and Joyous, A feeling I have, For the moment I had Where words and gestures, Can’t seem to describe it, Where words of mouth, Can’t seem to really be spoken of it.

A sudden feeling of excitement, A feeling of extremities, A rush to the head, For the moment I had

It’s finally here, Can’t seem to believe it For it’s my very own, Limited Edition Pokemon plush toy.

Mohamed Rizal (1983- )

The Sorrow of Sarajevo The Sarajevo wind leafs through newspapers that are glued by blood to the street; I pass with loafs of bread under my arm. The river carries the corpse of a woman. As I run across the bridge with my canister of water, I notice her wristwatch, still in place. Someone lobs a child’s shoe into the furnace. Family photographs spill from the back of a garbage truck; they carry inscriptions: Love from…love from…love There’s no way of describing these things, not really. Each night I wake and stand by the window to watch my neighbour who stands by the window to watch the dark.

Goran Simić (1952- ) translated by David Harsent

A Sweet Tooth Tale Chocolate and Brownies Pecan and Pies, Strawberry and Cupcakes, And everything’s nice Jellybean and Marshmallows, Floss Candies and Popcorns, Jawbreaker and Rocks And everything’s a delight Vanilla and Mint, Candy Cane and Spice, Sugary and Sweets, And everything’s terrific Muffin and Milkshakes, Cookies and Cream, Toffee and Kisses, Oh, what a wonderful feeling! On a sugary rush, A sweet tooth delight, How sweet they are, Of the sensory they give. Happy feelings Wondrous feelings, Hope it won’t stop Cause it’s so damn great. Mohamed Rizal (1983- )

Idolation Oh, with a pair of eyes That is truly gorgeous, An a nose that is As cute as a button Oh, with a full red lips That invokes your senses, And a mouth that smells Of a blossoming flower Oh, with a lock of brunette, As smooth as silk, And a cheek that is As red as those roses blooming in the fields Oh, with an angelic face That could set sail a thousand ships Twice over Over the Mediterranean Sea Oh, your grace and beauty, Have captivated me twice over, Those months ago, Upon first setting my eyes upon you

Oh, my hearts will a fluster Every time I see you, But I wish I could say those words to you Unfortunately it seems I can’t You see, You are someone that is, Isn’t near nor far To say the least. You’re definitely all too real But unfortunately You are just an actress on screen and I’m just someone who admires your beauty Mohamed Rizal (1983- )

Poetries: A random series of poems from personal to other poets  

A project on grid systems and the application of it on poem

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