She Walks In Beauty like the night
 

She Walks In Beauty like the night

a poem by Lord Byron


She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

How neatly a cat sleeps,


sleeps with its paws and its posture,
sleeps with its wicked claws,
and with its unfeeling blood,
sleeps with all the rings--
a series of burnt circles--
which have formed the odd geology
of its sand-colored tail.

I should like to sleep like a cat,
with all the fur of time,
with a tongue rough as flint,
with the dry sex of fire;
and after speaking to no one,
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.

I have seen how the cat asleep
would undulate, how the night
flowed through it like dark water;
and at times, it was going to fall
or possibly plunge into
the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
like a tiger's great-grandfather,
and would leap in the darkness over
rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.

Sleep, sleep cat of the night,
with episcopal ceremony
and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams;
control the obscurity
of our slumbering prowess
with your relentless heart
and the great ruff of your tail.

Pablo Neruda

The Fickle One

My eyes went away from me
Following a dark girl who went by.

She was made of black motherofpearl
Made of darkpurple grapes,
And she lashed my blood
With her tail of fire.

After them all I go.

A pale blonde went by
Like a golden plant
Swaying her gifts.
And my mouth went
Like a wave
Discharging on her breast
Lightningbolts of blood.

After them all I go.

But to you, without my moving,
Without seeing you, distant you,
Go my blood and my kisses,
My dark one and my fair one,
My broad one and my slender one,
My ugly one, my beauty,
Made of all the gold
And of all the silver,
Made of all the wheat
And of all the earth,
Made of all the water
Of sea waves,
Made for my arms
Made for my kisses,
Made for my soul.

Pablo Neruda

[asking]
by Barbara Jane Reyes

there is a ghazal swimming inside of her, wanting to be born. on the matter of foretelling, of small miracles, cactus flowers in bloom on this city fire escape, where inside your tongue touches every inch of her skin, where you lay your hand on her belly and sleep. here, she fingers the ornate remains of ancient mosques. here, some mythic angel will rise from the dust of ancestors’ bones. this is where you shall worship, at the intersections of distilled deities and memory’s sharp edges. the country is quite a poetic place; water and rock contain verse and metaphor, even wild grasses reply in rhyme. you are not broken. she knows this having captured a moment of lucidity; summer lightning bugs, sun’s rays in a jelly jar.

this is not a love poem, but a cove to escape the flux, however momentary. she is still a child, confabulating the fantastic; please do not erode her wonder for the liquid that is your language. there is thunderstorm in her chest, wanting to burst through her skin. this is neither love poem nor plea. this is not river, nor stone.

thou thought......
 

as the stars above;
bestowed their tears for me

to cleanse the darkness,
now I see .......

an endless game
from you to me. :candle:

La Compiuta Donzella
 

Sonetto

A LA stagion che il mondo folgia e fiora
accresce gioia a tutt’ i fin’ amanti:
vanno insierne a li giardini allora
che gli augelletti fanno dolci canti:
la franca gente tutta s’ innamora,
ed in servir ciascun traggesi innanti,
ed ogni damigella in gioi’ dimora,
a me m’ abbondan marrimenti e pianti.
Chè lo mio padre m’ ha messa in errore,
e tenemi sovente in forte doglia:
donar mi vole, a mia forza signore:
ed io di ciò non ho disio nè voglia,
e ’n gran tormento vivo a tutte l’ ore:
però non mi rallegra fior nè foglia.

Translation:

In the time when the world leafs and flowers

In the time when the world leafs and flowers,
gentle lovers' walks are long
and joyous through the fields, to woods and bowers
where little birds delight them with their song.
Every man does service courteously:
They fall in love, of their own free will,
and every maiden spends this time in joy.
But I have wept and I am weeping still
since father goads me till I can't contain
my feelings of bewilderment and grief:
He wants me to accept, by force, a lord
not of my liking or of my accord.
So every hour I cry and live in pain —
And take no joy in any flower or leaf.

An Old Russian Prayer

Hear our prayer Lord, for all animals,
May they be well-fed and well-trained and happy;
Protect them from hunger and fear and suffering;
And, we pray, protect specially, dear Lord,
The little cat who is the companion of our home,
Keep her safe as she goes abroad,
And bring her back to comfort us.

Anonymous

for all my beloved black kittys and a shy little loveable tuxedo kitty who walks like a ninja in our home...
 

The Cat and the Moon
The cat went here and there
and the moon spun round like a top,
and the nearest kin of the moon,
the creeping cat, looked up.
Black Minnaloushe stared at the moon,
for, wander and wail as he would,
the pure cold light in the sky
troubled his animal blood.

Minnaloushe runs in the grass
lifting his delicate feet.
Do you dance, Minnaloushe, do you dance?
When two close kindred meet,
what better than call a dance?
Maybe the moon may learn,
tired of that courtly fashion,
a new dance turn.

Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
from moonlit place to place,
the sacred moon overhead
has taken a new phase.
Does Minnaloushe know that his pupils
will pass from change to change,
and that from round to crescent,
from crescent to round they range?

Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
alone, important and wise,
and lifts to the changing moon
his changing eyes.

William Butler Yeats

Dante Alighieri
 

Tanto gentil e tanto onesta pare
la donna mia quand'ella altrui saluta,
ch'ogne lingua deven tremando muta,
e li occhi no l'ardiscon di guardare.

Ella si va, sentendosi laudare,
benignamente d'umilta' vestuta;
e par che sia una cosa venuta
da cielo in terra a miracol mostrare.

Mostrasi si' piacente a chi la mira,
che da' per li occhi una dolcezza al core,
che 'ntender non la puo' chi no la prova;

e par che de la sua labbia si mova
uno spirito soave pien d'amore,
che va dicendo a l'anima: Sospira.

Translation:

So gentle and so pure appears
my lady when she greets others,
that every tongue trembles and is mute,
and their eyes do not dare gaze at her.
She goes by, aware of their praise,
benignly dressed in humility:
and seems as if she were a thing come
from Heaven to Earth to show a miracle.

She shows herself so pleasing to those who gaze,
through the eyes she sends a sweetness to the heart,
that no one can understand who does not know it:
and from her lips there comes
a sweet spirit full of love,
that goes saying to the soul: ‘Sigh.’

:moonstars:

Francesco Petrarca - Now That The Sky and Earth and Wind are Still
 

Hor che'l ciel, e la terra, e'l vento tace,
E le fere, e gli augelli sonno affrena,
Notte il carro stellato in giro mena,
E nel suo letto il mar senz'onda giace;
Veglio, penso, ardo, piango; e chi mi sface,
Sempre m' innanzi per mia dolce pena:
Guerra il mio stato, d'ira e di duol piena;
E sol di lei pensando ho qualche pace:

Cosoe sol d'una chiara fonte viva Move il dolce,
e l'amaro, ond'io mi pasco: Una man sola mi risana,
e punge; E perch il mio martir non giunga a riva,
Mille volte il doe moro, e mille nasco;
Tanto dalla salute mia son lunge.

Translation:

Now, while the heavens, and the earth, and the winds are still, And beasts and birds are locked in sleep,
Night's starry chariot makes its circles, and in its bed the ocean lies waveless;
I watch, I think, I burn, I weep, and she who caused my anguish is ever present, and remains, to my sweet pain:
Warfare is my state, full of anger and pain, and only thoughts of her bring any peace.

Thus from one pure and living fount flows the sweetness and the suffering on which I feed;
a single hand restores me and wounds;
and, since my anguish knows no end, a thousand times a day I die,
and a thousand times I am born,
so great is the distance from my salvation.

Giovanni Boccaccio - "I am a young maiden, and I willingly"
 

mi son giovinetta, e volentieri
m' allegro e canto en la stagion novella,
merzè d' amore e de' dolci pensieri.

Io vo pe' verdi prati riguardando
I bianchi fiori e' gialli et i vermigli,
le rose in su le spini e i bianchi gigli ;
e tutti quanti gli vo somigliando
al viso di colui, che me, amando,
ha presa e terrà sempre, come quella
eh' altro non ha in disio che' e' suoi piaceri.

De' quai quando io ne truovo alcun che sia,
al mio parer, ben simile di lui,
il colgo e bacio e parlomi con lui,
e com' io so, così 1' anima mia
tututta gli apro, e ciò che '1 cor disia :
quindi con altri il metto in ghirlandella
legato co' miei crin biondi e leggieri.

E quel piacer, che di natura il fiore
agli occhi porge, quel simil me '1 dona
che s' io vedessi la propia persona
che m' ha accesa del suo dolce amore ;
quel che mi faccia più il suo odore,
esprimer no '1 potrei con la favella ;
ma i sospiri ne son testimon veri.

Li quai non escon già mai del mio petto,
come dell' altre donne, aspri né gravi,
ma se ne vengon fuor caldi e soavi,
et al mio amor sen vanno nel cospetto ;
il quai, come gli sente, a dar diletto
di sé a me si muove, e viene in quella
eh' i' son per dir : " Deh vien, eh' i' non disperi ! "



Translation:


I am young and fain to sing
In this happy tide of spring
Of love and many a gentle thing.

I wander through green meadows gazing
With blossoms gold and red and white ;
Rose by the thorn and lily fair,
Both one and all I do compare
With him who, worshipping my charms,
For aye would fold me in his arms
As one unto his service sworn.

Then, when I find a flower that seems
Like to the object of my dreams,
I gather it and kiss it there,
I flatter it in accents fair,
My heart outpour, my soul stoop down,
Then weave it in a fragrant crown
Among my flaxen locks to wear.

The rapture nature's floweret gay
Awakes in me doth last alway.
As if I tarried face to face
With him whose true love is my grace ;
Thoughts which its fragrancy inspires
I cannot frame to my desires,
My sighs their pilgrimage do trace.

My sighs are neither harsh nor sad
As other women's are, but glad
And tender ; in so fond a wise
They seek my love that he replies
By coming hither, and so gives
Delight to her who in him lives
Yet almost wept : " Come, for hope dies.'

It Is At Moments After I Have Dreamed
 

Dreams In The Dusk - Carl Sandburg