The Hurricane

The Hurricane
by William Carlos Williams

The tree lay down
on the garage roof
and stretched, You
have your heaven,
it said, go to it.

London - W. Blake

London - William Blake

I wandered through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
A mark in every face I meet,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every man,
In every infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear:

How the chimney-sweeper's cry
Every blackening church appals,
And the hapless soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down palace-walls.

But most, through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot's curse
Blasts the new-born infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.

The Great fire of London

In 1666, the first week of September, there was a fire in London, the so called Great Fire of London. It was a real disaster and destroyed so many buildings, homes to poor people.

As you all know, something similar has been going on in the past few weeks, in London. I am not here to compare the events because both break my heart into pieces. But there's a poem which describes what it is all about, or, rather, the essence of it.

The Coming of War: Actæon - by Ezra Pound

An image of Lethe, and the fields
Full of faint light but golden,
Gray cliffs, and beneath them
A sea
Harsher than granite, unstill, never ceasing;

High forms with the movement of gods,
Perilous aspect;

And one said:
"This is Actæon."
Actaeon of golden greaves!

Over fair meadows,
Over the cool face of that field,
Unstill, ever moving,
Host of an ancient people,
The silent cortège.

Die, Slowly

Hello everyone,

I don't have much time these days, for nothing basically...so I decided to take a book of poems and read at least one a week. It's a real treat!!;-)

I want to share one with you, hope you'll enjoy!

DIE SLOWLY, Pablo Neruda

He who becomes the slave of habit,
who follows the same routes every day,
who never changes pace, who does not risk and change the color of his clothes,
who does not speak and does not experience,
dies slowly.

He or she who shuns passion,
who prefers black on white,
dotting ones is rather than a bundle of emotions, the kind that make your eyes glimmer,
that turn a yawn into a smile,
that make the heart pound in the face of mistakes and feelings,
dies slowly.

He who slowly destroys his own self-esteem,
who does not allow himself to be helped,
who spends days on end complaining about his own bad luck,
about the rain that never stops,
dies slowly.  

He or she who abandon a project before starting it,
who fail to ask questions on subjects he doesn't know,
he or she who don't reply when they are asked something they do know,
die slowly.

Let's try and avoid death in small doses,
always reminding oneself that being alive requires an effort by far greater than the simple fact of breathing.
Only a burning patience will lead to the attainment of a splendid happiness.