Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

‘you are allowed to fall in love’ …

8 July 2022

twitter: @eugenio_fouz

-@tumblr-

___

From ‘Under Milk Wood’
DYLAN THOMAS

‘Every morning when I wake,
Dear Lord, a little prayer I make,
O please do keep Thy lovely eye
On all poor creatures born to die

And every evening at sun-down
I ask a blessing on the town,
For whether we last the night or no
I’m sure is always touch-and-go.

We are not wholly bad or good
Who live our lives under Milk Wood,
And Thou, I know, wilt be the first
To see our best side, not our worst.

O let us see another day!
Bless us all this night, I pray,
And to the sun we all will bow
And say, good-bye – but just for now!’

__

.

__

***

___

Eluard, Bukowski, & others / extras

5 July 2022

twitter: @eugenio_fouz

-@Instagram-

_

ELUARD

[Eugène-Émile-Paul Grindel (Saint-Denis, 14 de diciembre de 1895-18 de noviembre de 1952), conocido como Paul Éluard, fue un poeta francés que cultivó de manera significativa el dadaísmo y el surrealismo.]

https://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Éluard

@wikipedia

__

https://www.biografiasyvidas.com/biografia/e/eluard.htm

__

L’amoureuse (Paul Éluard)

‘Elle est debout sur mes paupières
Et ses cheveux sont dans les miens,
Elle a la forme de mes mains,
Elle a la couleur de mes yeux,
Elle s’engloutit dans mon ombre
Comme une pierre sur le ciel.

Elle a toujours les yeux ouverts
Et ne me laisse pas dormir.
Ses rêves en pleine lumière
Font s’évaporer les soleils
Me font rire, pleurer et rire,
Parler sans avoir rien à dire.’

__

BUKOWSKI

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Bukowski

@wikipedia

An Answer to a Critic of Sorts

CHARLES BUKOWSKI

“A lady will perhaps meet a man
Because of the way he writes
And soon the lady might be suggesting
Another way of writing.

But if the man loves the lady
He will continue to write the way he does
And if the man loves the poem
He will continue to write the way he must

And if the man loves both the lady and the poem
He knows what love is
Twice as much as any other man

I know what love is.
This poem is to tell the lady that.”
____

EXTRAS

Gents only!

parisiangentleman.com/10-tips-for-beginners

Argentine advertisement

(@imgur)

https://imgur.com/a/dkg2FBJ

**

seen on Twitter, Reid (@locaperdidita)

*

‘Bluebird’ de Bukowski / extras

26 June 2022

twitter: @eugenio_fouz

-@tumblr-

***

Bluebird

CHARLES BUKOWSKI

‘there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?’

__

https://allpoetry.com/Charles-Bukowski

__

EXTRAS

Mujer colombiana que decía hablar con extraterrestres (El Nacional.com)

shared on @Twitter by @ElNacionalWeb

__

Toni García en Twitter, @tonigarias

Diez cosas que no se hacen o no se ven mucho

__

shared on @Twitter by @FunnymanPage

__

‘Phenomenal woman’ (Maya Angelou) / extras

29 May 2022

twitter: @eugenio_fouz

-@tumblr-

__

Phenomenal woman

MAYA ANGELOU

‘Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,
They say they still can’t see.
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need for my care.
’Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.’

read it on the website poetryfoundation.org

phenomenal-woman (Maya Angelou)

__

__

-Cool … basketball player-

shared on @Twitter by @LovePower_page

__

__

***

The Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator (A. Sexton) / extras

5 May 2022

twitter: @eugenio_fouz

-@tumblr-

a/

b/

EXTRAS

-tweet shared by @FunnyManPage on @Twitter-

_

The Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator

by Anne Sexton

https://tinyurl.com/ykzh275b

-poetryfoundation.org-

The Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator
BY ANNE SEXTON
The end of the affair is always death.
She’s my workshop. Slippery eye,
out of the tribe of myself my breath
finds you gone. I horrify
those who stand by. I am fed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Finger to finger, now she’s mine.
She’s not too far. She’s my encounter.
I beat her like a bell. I recline
in the bower where you used to mount her.
You borrowed me on the flowered spread.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Take for instance this night, my love,
that every single couple puts together
with a joint overturning, beneath, above,
the abundant two on sponge and feather,
kneeling and pushing, head to head.
At night alone, I marry the bed.

I break out of my body this way,
an annoying miracle. Could I
put the dream market on display?
I am spread out. I crucify.
My little plum is what you said.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Then my black-eyed rival came.
The lady of water, rising on the beach,
a piano at her fingertips, shame
on her lips and a flute’s speech.
And I was the knock-kneed broom instead.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

She took you the way a woman takes
a bargain dress off the rack
and I broke the way a stone breaks.
I give back your books and fishing tack.
Today’s paper says that you are wed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

The boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other. They are overfed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

__

-@tumblr-

___

Phenomenal woman (Maya Angelou) / extras

28 April 2022

twitter: @eugenio_fouz

-@tumblr-

Phenomenal Woman
BY MAYA ANGELOU
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,
They say they still can’t see.
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need for my care.
’Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

https://tinyurl.com/3wyhnzkb

.

-@tumblr-

*

-seen on @Linkedin

__

Luz Sánchez Mellado, @luzsmellado 

**

Elon Musk, @elonmusk

(the Chief on Twitter from April 2022)

-@Instagram-

_

Buenas tardes” (después de las 12 p.m)

@RAEinforma

__

Whitman, a young poet and Dylan Thomas

11 October 2021

twitter: @eugenio_fouz

1633939466842

-@Instagram-

_

-@YouTube video, 2: 46 mins.-

Dead Poets Society

1633939466850

Do not go gentle into that good night
Dylan Thomas, Welsh poet- 1914-1953

‘Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.’

*

dylan-and-caitlin-thomas

about Dylan Thomas

‘Dylan Marlais Thomas was born on October 27, 1914, in Swansea, South Wales. His father was an English Literature professor at the local grammar school and would often recite Shakespeare, fortifying Thomas’s love for the rhythmic ballads of Gerard Manley Hopkins, W. B. Yeats, and Edgar Allan Poe.

Thomas dropped out of school at sixteen to become a junior reporter for the South Wales Daily Post. By December of 1932, he left his job at the Post and decided to concentrate on his poetry full-time. It was during this time, in his late teens, that Thomas wrote more than half of his collected poems.’

(…)

https://poets.org/poet/dylan-thomas

**

In a Station of the Metro (Ezra Pound)

14 September 2021

twitter: @eugenio_fouz

Grand-Central-Station-170614090305005

 

In a Station of the Metro
BY EZRA POUND
The apparition of these faces in the crowd:
Petals on a wet, black bough.

 

smoking woman

_

 

 

 

‘My love’ (e. e. cummings) / extras

29 August 2021

twitter: @eugenio_fouz

bod

@tumblr

**

My Love
e. e. cummings

‘my love
thy hair is one kingdom
the king whereof is darkness
thy forehead is a flight of flowers


thy head is a quick forest
filled with sleeping birds
thy breasts are swarms of white bees
upon the bough of thy body
thy body to me is April
in those armpits is the approach of spring


thy thighs are white horses yoked to a chariot
of kings
they are the striking of a good minstrel
between them is always a pleasant song


my love
thy head is a casket
of the cool jewel of thy mind
the hair of thy head is one warrior
innocent of defeat
thy hair upon thy shoulders is an army
with victory and with trumpets


thy legs are the trees of dreaming
whose fruit is the very eatage of forgetfulness


thy lips are satraps in scarlet
in whose kiss is the combinings of kings
thy wrists
are holy
which are the keepers of the keys of thy blood
thy feet upon thy ankles are flowers in vases
of silver


in thy beauty is the dilemma of flutes


thy eyes are the betrayal
of bells comprehended through incense.’

__

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1621/my-love/

__

#PDF

https://tinyurl.com/3y3ysta9

*

muse

-piece by Orit Fuchs-

**

Lyrics

I’ve got to find my baby

ELVIS PRESLEY

https://www.songstraducidas.com/letratraducida-Ive_got_to_find_my_baby_584602.htm

*

@YouTube, 1:45 mins. Elvis Presley

_

“At the Grave of Burns” (William Wordsworth)

29 July 2021

twitter: @eugenio_fouz

1627308671329

-@tumblr-

At the Grave of Burns
By William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

July 21, 1803, seven years after his death.

I SHIVER, Spirit fierce and bold,
At thought of what I now behold:
As vapors breathed from dungeons cold,
Strike pleasure dead,
So sadness comes from out the mould

Where Burns is laid.

And have I then thy bones so near,
And thou forbidden to appear?
As if it were thyself that’s here
I shrink with pain;
And both my wishes and my fear
Alike are vain.

Off weight—nor press on weight!—away
Dark thoughts!—they came, but not to stay;
With chastened feelings would I pay
The tribute due
To him, and aught that hides his clay
From mortal view.

Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth
He sang, his genius “glinted” forth,
Rose like a star that touching earth,
For so it seems,
Doth glorify its humble birth
With matchless beams.

The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow,
The struggling heart, where be they now?—
Full soon the Aspirant of the plough,
The prompt, the brave,
Slept, with the obscurest, in the low
And silent grave.

I mourned with thousands, but as one
More deeply grieved, for He was gone
Whose light I hailed when first it shone,
And showed my youth
How Verse may build a princely throne
On humble truth.

Alas! where’er the current tends,
Regret pursues and with it blends,—
Huge Criffel’s hoary top ascends
By Skiddaw seen,—
Neighbors we were, and loving friends
We might have been;

True friends though diversely inclined;
But heart with heart and mind with mind,
Where the main fibres are entwined,
Through Nature’s skill,
May even by contraries be joined
More closely still.

The tear will start, and let it flow;
Thou “poor Inhabitant below,”
At this dread moment—even so—
Might we together
Have sate and talked where gowans blow,
Or on wild heather.

What treasures would have then been placed
Within my reach; of knowledge graced
By fancy what a rich repast!
But why go on?—
Oh! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast,
His grave grass-grown.

There, too, a Son, his joy and pride,
(Not three weeks past the Stripling died,)
Lies gathered to his Father’s side,
Soul-moving sight!
Yet one to which is not denied
Some sad delight:

For he is safe, a quiet bed
Hath early found among the dead,
Harbored where none can be misled,
Wronged, or distrest;
And surely here it may be said
That such are blest.

And oh for Thee, by pitying grace
Checked oft-times in a devious race,
May He who halloweth the place
Where Man is laid
Receive thy Spirit in the embrace
For which it prayed!

Sighing I turned away; but ere
Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear,
Music that sorrow comes not near,
A ritual hymn,
Chanted in love that casts out fear
By Seraphim.”

__

https://www.bartleby.com/297/417.html

**


Journalism As Literature

A graduate seminar at the University of Florida

Suspendermen

Elements of True Gentlemen

El Lobo está aquí

Disentería literaria

Garrafablog

El primer blog de Garrafón en habla hispana

A Guy's Moleskine Notebook

Books. Reflections. Travel.

efnotebloc

crear siempre, aprender y guardar la llama