Harvest moon by Yosa Buson
.
Harvest moon--
called at his house,
he was digging potatoes.
vrijdag 5 juni 2015
The Moon
The Moon by William Henry Davies
.
Thy beauty haunts me heart and soul,
Oh, thou fair Moon, so close and bright;
Thy beauty makes me like the child
That cries aloud to own thy light:
The little child that lifts each arm
To press thee to her bosom warm.
.
Though there are birds that sing this night
With thy white beams across their throats,
Let my deep silence speak for me
More than for them their sweetest notes:
Who worships thee till music fails,
Is greater than thy nightingales.
.
.
Thy beauty haunts me heart and soul,
Oh, thou fair Moon, so close and bright;
Thy beauty makes me like the child
That cries aloud to own thy light:
The little child that lifts each arm
To press thee to her bosom warm.
.
Though there are birds that sing this night
With thy white beams across their throats,
Let my deep silence speak for me
More than for them their sweetest notes:
Who worships thee till music fails,
Is greater than thy nightingales.
.
Full Moon
Full Moon by Tu Fu
.
Above the tower -- a lone, twice-sized moon.
On the cold river passing night-filled homes,
It scatters restless gold across the waves.
On mats, it shines richer than silken gauze.
.
Empty peaks, silence: among sparse stars,
Not yet flawed, it drifts. Pine and cinnamon
Spreading in my old garden . . . All light,
All ten thousand miles at once in its light!
.
Above the tower -- a lone, twice-sized moon.
On the cold river passing night-filled homes,
It scatters restless gold across the waves.
On mats, it shines richer than silken gauze.
.
Empty peaks, silence: among sparse stars,
Not yet flawed, it drifts. Pine and cinnamon
Spreading in my old garden . . . All light,
All ten thousand miles at once in its light!
The Freedom of the Moon
The Freedom of the Moon by Robert Frost
.
I've tried the new moon tilted in the air
Above a hazy tree-and-farmhouse cluster
As you might try a jewel in your hair.
I've tried it fine with little breadth of luster,
Alone, or in one ornament combining
With one first-water start almost shining.
.
I put it shining anywhere I please.
By walking slowly on some evening later,
I've pulled it from a crate of crooked trees,
And brought it over glossy water, greater,
And dropped it in, and seen the image wallow,
The color run, all sorts of wonder follow.
.
.
I've tried the new moon tilted in the air
Above a hazy tree-and-farmhouse cluster
As you might try a jewel in your hair.
I've tried it fine with little breadth of luster,
Alone, or in one ornament combining
With one first-water start almost shining.
.
I put it shining anywhere I please.
By walking slowly on some evening later,
I've pulled it from a crate of crooked trees,
And brought it over glossy water, greater,
And dropped it in, and seen the image wallow,
The color run, all sorts of wonder follow.
.
THE SADNESS OF THE MOON
THE SADNESS OF THE MOON by Charles Baudelaire
.
THE Moon more indolently dreams to-night
Than a fair woman on her couch at rest,
Caressing, with a hand distraught and light,
Before she sleeps, the contour of her breast.
.
Upon her silken avalanche of down,
Dying she breathes a long and swooning sigh;
And watches the white visions past her flown,
Which rise like blossoms to the azure sky.
.
And when, at times, wrapped in her languor deep,
Earthward she lets a furtive tear-drop flow,
Some pious poet, enemy of sleep,
.
Takes in his hollow hand the tear of snow
Whence gleams of iris and of opal start,
And hides it from the Sun, deep in his heart.
.
.
THE Moon more indolently dreams to-night
Than a fair woman on her couch at rest,
Caressing, with a hand distraught and light,
Before she sleeps, the contour of her breast.
.
Upon her silken avalanche of down,
Dying she breathes a long and swooning sigh;
And watches the white visions past her flown,
Which rise like blossoms to the azure sky.
.
And when, at times, wrapped in her languor deep,
Earthward she lets a furtive tear-drop flow,
Some pious poet, enemy of sleep,
.
Takes in his hollow hand the tear of snow
Whence gleams of iris and of opal start,
And hides it from the Sun, deep in his heart.
.
Everything
Everything by Anna Akhmatova
.
Everything’s looted, betrayed and traded,
black death’s wing’s overhead.
Everything’s eaten by hunger, unsated,
so why does a light shine ahead?
.
By day, a mysterious wood, near the town,
breathes out cherry, a cherry perfume.
By night, on July’s sky, deep, and transparent,
new constellations are thrown.
.
And something miraculous will come
close to the darkness and ruin,
something no-one, no-one, has known,
though we’ve longed for it since we were children.
.
Everything’s looted, betrayed and traded,
black death’s wing’s overhead.
Everything’s eaten by hunger, unsated,
so why does a light shine ahead?
.
By day, a mysterious wood, near the town,
breathes out cherry, a cherry perfume.
By night, on July’s sky, deep, and transparent,
new constellations are thrown.
.
And something miraculous will come
close to the darkness and ruin,
something no-one, no-one, has known,
though we’ve longed for it since we were children.
Flowers
Flowers by Raymond A. Foss
.
Three flowers
bloom each day
.
Falsely fragile Queen Anne’s Lace
Clump of effervescent Daisies
A singular Black-eyed Susan
.
Wildflowers all
growing in the fields
of our hearts
.
Each her own
scent, shape, pose
Craning for light, food, attention
.
Willingly, lovingly tended
by the gardener,
the one who sowed the seed
.
April 8, 2005 10:35, edited 10:44
....................................................
Wallflower by Anne Sexton
.
Come friend,
I have an old story to tell you—
.
Listen.
Sit down beside me and listen.
My face is red with sorrow
and my breasts are made of straw.
I sit in the ladder-back chair
in a corner of the polished stage.
I have forgiven all the old actors for dying.
A new one comes on with the same lines,
like large white growths, in his mouth.
The dancers come on from the wings,
perfectly mated.
.
I look up. The ceiling is pearly.
My thighs press, knotting in their treasure.
Upstage the bride falls in satin to the floor.
Beside her the tall hero in a red wool robe
stirs the fire with his ivory cane.
The string quartet plays for itself,
gently, gently, sleeves and waxy bows.
The legs of the dancers leap and catch.
I myself have little stiff legs,
my back is as straight as a book
and how I came to this place—
the little feverish roses,
the islands of olives and radishes,
the blissful pastimes of the parlor—
I'll never know.
..........................
Moccasin Flowers by Mary Oliver
.
All my life,
so far,
I have loved
more than one thing,
.
including the mossy hooves
of dreams, including'
the spongy litter
under the tall trees.
.
In spring
the moccasin flowers
reach for the crackling
lick of the sun
.
and burn down. Sometimes,
in the shadows,
I see the hazy eyes,
the lamb-lips
.
of oblivion,
its deep drowse,
and I can imagine a new nothing
in the universe,
.
the matted leaves splitting
open, revealing
the black planks
of the stairs.
.
But all my life--sofar--
I have loved best
how the flowers rise
and open, how
.
the pink lungs of their bodies
enter the fore of the world
and stand there shining
and willing--the one
.
thing they can do before
they shuffle forward
into the floor of darkness, they
become the trees.
.
.
Three flowers
bloom each day
.
Falsely fragile Queen Anne’s Lace
Clump of effervescent Daisies
A singular Black-eyed Susan
.
Wildflowers all
growing in the fields
of our hearts
.
Each her own
scent, shape, pose
Craning for light, food, attention
.
Willingly, lovingly tended
by the gardener,
the one who sowed the seed
.
April 8, 2005 10:35, edited 10:44
....................................................
Wallflower by Anne Sexton
.
Come friend,
I have an old story to tell you—
.
Listen.
Sit down beside me and listen.
My face is red with sorrow
and my breasts are made of straw.
I sit in the ladder-back chair
in a corner of the polished stage.
I have forgiven all the old actors for dying.
A new one comes on with the same lines,
like large white growths, in his mouth.
The dancers come on from the wings,
perfectly mated.
.
I look up. The ceiling is pearly.
My thighs press, knotting in their treasure.
Upstage the bride falls in satin to the floor.
Beside her the tall hero in a red wool robe
stirs the fire with his ivory cane.
The string quartet plays for itself,
gently, gently, sleeves and waxy bows.
The legs of the dancers leap and catch.
I myself have little stiff legs,
my back is as straight as a book
and how I came to this place—
the little feverish roses,
the islands of olives and radishes,
the blissful pastimes of the parlor—
I'll never know.
..........................
Moccasin Flowers by Mary Oliver
.
All my life,
so far,
I have loved
more than one thing,
.
including the mossy hooves
of dreams, including'
the spongy litter
under the tall trees.
.
In spring
the moccasin flowers
reach for the crackling
lick of the sun
.
and burn down. Sometimes,
in the shadows,
I see the hazy eyes,
the lamb-lips
.
of oblivion,
its deep drowse,
and I can imagine a new nothing
in the universe,
.
the matted leaves splitting
open, revealing
the black planks
of the stairs.
.
But all my life--sofar--
I have loved best
how the flowers rise
and open, how
.
the pink lungs of their bodies
enter the fore of the world
and stand there shining
and willing--the one
.
thing they can do before
they shuffle forward
into the floor of darkness, they
become the trees.
.
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